


Litost

by cadkitten



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Ghosts, Hacking, Horror, Lazarus Pit, Loss, M/M, Memorials, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Non-Canonical Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rebirth, Romance, Self-Harm, Suicide, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Vomiting, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6931735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gotham is... a place of cruelty and anger, of death and corruption. Gotham is a place that once held hope. Gotham has cradled each Robin, one by one, in her darkness, taking them under her soil and guiding them on. When she claims her last Robin, she knows it will not be his final resting place. She knows it will not be her air that he breathes in first; it will not be her sky that he emerges beneath. She knows that everything will change. Robin will change. The nights will change. And Gotham... she knows that she will change the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Litost: A Czech word whose closest meaning is "a state of agony and torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery."**
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> Special thanks to a counselor, who provided insight into Tim's mental and emotional state and what his actual diagnoses would potentially be. I've had lots of fun planning this one for several months now. I hope you all enjoy it. This one's going to be huge.
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> [Relevant comic](http://www.craveonline.com/site/465865-exclusive-preview-teen-titans-18-requiem)
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> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "I Found" by Amber Run and "City Sounds" from 8 Hours Of

**"We don't talk about it. Even to each other. But behind the masks - underneath the capes - it's always there... the reality that death is standing right beside us... every time we leap off a building. Every time we avoid a blow powerful enough to remove our heads. She's patient, just waiting for us to give her an opening. She'll tap us on the shoulder and say, "That was fun, come with me." In the end, there's nothing left to say, except "Good-bye." - Tim's thoughts from Teen Titans #18**

Tim ducked under a blow from his opponent, narrowly missing impact from the guy's fist. Adrenaline surged as the guy fought back and it felt - for an instant - like old times. He could almost let the feeling of his cape fluttering behind him lull him into feeling like he was five years younger, like he was living within a world that wasn't filled with every pain and every sorrow he couldn't have ever imagined. With a solid smack of his staff into the man's side - the wood vibrating through his arms and core - Tim could almost imagine Dick behind him, fending off another criminal, protecting Tim's back at all costs. The flick of a knife being opened sped up Tim's heart into a staccato - a reaction he'd been told once not to allow – and he aimed for the torso, landing three quick hits, enough for the man to loosen his grip on the knife. Tim put one end of the staff on the ground and kicked him solidly in the jaw, sending him backwards

He was playing with the guy and he knew it; he could have taken him down a half dozen times already, but on nights like these, he needed the distraction. Most of his evening had been spent curled up on his bathroom floor, tucked in the corner between the radiator and his tub, shaking despite the heat of Gotham's pathetic attempt at summer. He'd sat there for hours, choking on his own breath, the swell of silent sobs threatening to cut off his airway, leaving him strangled and feeling like a strung out mess for the better part of several hours.

It had only been his alarm on his phone going off telling him he had to get out here and protect a city that was lacking something tonight. A city that was down one very powerful presence; a city that wept for the absence in her midst. And just like Blüdhaven and San Francisco before her, Tim took to Gotham's night just as he had for the past two weeks. 

Another strike right to his ribs and Tim stood for an instant, let the feeling of the blow radiate through his body... and then his staff cracked against the guy's head, just hard enough to knock him out cold, but not hard enough to do any permanent damage. He'd always known his own power to a degree that had shocked even Bruce, that had given Dick pause and - once upon a time - Damian as well. The memory struck pain through his heart and stuck his breath in his throat in a way that was far too similar to how it had been lodged there in the hours spent on his bathroom floor. Swallowing it down, Tim turned away from the crumpled man on the street, making a run for the next building and using his grappling hook to pull himself to the top and over the edge. He ran... ran like the world was chasing him, like if he stopped running, death would clutch him tight in her arms and never let him go. If he were honest - truly honest - that was exactly how he felt out here tonight and that terrified him in a way he wouldn't have been able to explain. 

Three blocks over, he finally eased his pace enough to call the would-be rapist in, letting Gotham PD know where he'd left him. Anonymous tip, of course, but one Tim was sure they were used to after all these weeks, probably knowing his voice by now, marking it down as another Red Robin strike or whatever it was that they ticked it off in their books as. Vigilante justice... peacemaking... war starting. It all depended on how one went about looking at it as to what it came out as. His mother's voice whispered, "It'll all come out in the wash," inside his mind and Tim was hit with an unexpected wave of grief as he launched himself onto the next building, narrowly avoided missing his hold to vault over the side and down onto the tar and gravel mixture that made up half the rooves in this part of the city. The feeling of the heat-warmed mix beneath his feet and the scent of caked-on tar brought him back up to a point that he could pull in a reasonable breath again. 

Crouching there for a moment, he let himself fight for every breath, let himself strangle on it again and again until the wild flutter of his pulse calmed itself. Easing himself up, he took three careful steps before he was flat-out running again. This time he was running away from his own emotions, away from the sting of losing far too many good people, away from the ache that wanted to reside as a heavy weight inside his soul. Away from the thoughts that had been plaguing him for years; the little whispers of horrible things that had been growing stronger and stronger over the past few weeks, that had launched into a full-on onslaught with the news of Damian's loss. 

He couldn't even bring himself to call it death. The word was far too final, held far too much grief for someone like him to stamp across his heart once more. His life had been filled to the brim with anguish and he could find a way to blame himself for every single piece of it. His father was a product of his own choices in life, paying for it with his demise. His teammates had been, in a way, even worse of a loss - knowing he wasn't even indirectly responsible, but as the forefront of their team, the blame lay squarely on his own shoulders. Shoulders that hadn't been able to bear the brunt of such things. Shoulders that grew heavier with each mistake, with each misstep, that hunched a little more every single time another brilliant life departed this world.

He slowed to a stop, slumping against the bricks of the rooftop stairwell of one of the most beautiful buildings Gotham had to offer. He'd found peace here once, after his father's death. The city had given him his thoughts and had allowed him his grief. He'd given her his vow to not leave his father's loss in vain; that he'd do his best to heal her.

Perhaps it had been retribution for the blood that had flowed because of her filth, her grime, and her dark underbelly. Maybe it had been the knowledge that he had a burden to bear that could never be undone, that he owed his father at least that much, but it had become harder with every subsequent misstep to keep his promises. He'd spent hours up here contemplating life and death, talking in hushed whispers to Gotham's night or to Dick's patient ear. He'd always been there for him, always picked up the other end of the line to let Tim get whatever it was he needed to off of his chest and to tell him to come back down when he felt like he was about to float away like a stray balloon, about to be swallowed up by the stratosphere. He'd spent nights with his limbs burning from the drag of his nails, whispering words into the night with Dick crouched at his side as they regarded the city for what she was. And he'd spent even more, barely coherent as he just listened to the sound of his brother's soothing voice lulling him back down from the edge. 

When Dick had gone, Tim had found that the phone he called late one night out of what had amounted to pure desperation had been answered by another voice. One that rang of a similar agony, one that breathed out the barest hints of disbelief as to whom he was talking to. Tim had found a similarity in their pain, had found hours of respite within Damian's words, and he'd offered the fragile return of his own when he held enough of a grasp on reality to birth them into the world. There had been hours' worth of dead air between them, just the steady sound of one another breathing as they worked their respective city nights; the silence comforting in its own way. It had been different than it was with Dick, but it had _worked_. It had given them both something to hold onto when times got bad and it had given them a similarity when they didn't speak that allowed them the illusion of Dick's presence between them. He'd talked to Damian about it once, crouched right here in the dead of winter, cold to his very core, numb in heart and hands. They'd admitted the deception they were inflicting upon themselves; it had come as somewhat of a shock that neither of them had been alone in it. Despite their differences, they had found one common ground and, with it, a way to help one another. 

Tim moved to the ledge, crouching, his staff settled on the ground against the bricks, just behind a piece of rebar that the heat had fused to the tar of the rooftop, keeping it from rolling away. His hand steadied him on the edge as he eased himself down, finding the all-too-familiar position - the one he'd held for far too many hours of his life - the one he'd found difficult to let go of when he did manage to let himself breathe for a few hopeful seconds of his life. 

His arms burned, bitter with the sting of sweat and the ache of torn up flesh; his side ached from the hit he'd taken from the thug in the alleyway. He closed his eyes, letting it consume him for just an instant. The throb of his ribs, the stab of pain as he took in a full breath, all of it flooded him for one blessed second before it was wiped away, dulled by the emotional gamut he ran every single night. The choke of his pain came clawing back up his throat and he could feel the tears stinging his eyes this time around. Even as he drew his phone from the pouch on his side - even as he set it to dial Dick's number, letting the receiver in his ear pick up the signal - his hands began to shake with the knowledge of what would come next. He'd been avoiding everything about this moment for years and this very number had always been the thing that cut it off before it could grow into the giant, ugly beast that threatened to swallow him whole. 

One... two... three and then four... five rings and the quiet click of the voicemail picking up. Gotham cellular's mechanical message segued into Dick's gentle voice, a message both Tim and Damian had left alone all this time. He listened to the mundane words and he held them in his mind, sealing them away with a sense of finality as he reached up and removed his mask. He let it flutter to the rooftop behind him, tilting his face up into the barest hint of wind whispering through the city. The tears streaking down his cheeks cooled there, barely drying before fresh tears tracked down behind them, dampening the path once again. 

The quiet beep at the end of Dick's message came and Tim fought through his tears, fought past the lump in his throat to get the words he needed to say to free themselves from his body. "I told you once so long ago that you were closer to me than my own family." He paused, letting his breath catch on the line for a moment before he continued, "I meant every word I ever spoke to you. I just... I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that without you, without Damian... I can't hold on anymore. I know it would have crushed you." His voice wavered and he had to hold his breath for a moment to not outright sob into the phone. He tilted his head back further, taking a steadying breath. "You gave me everything you ever had and you never could have known what that meant to me. And he took your place - he stepped up his game for you. You would have been so proud of him, Dick. I know you are now, wherever you both are. I guess..." he hesitated and then pushed himself up, standing on the ledge, looking out over the city. "She's beautiful tonight. More peaceful than she's been in years. I think she knows."

He let his gaze rest on the building across the street and then finding the gap between them, feeling the call of the air in their midst. "She knows I'll see you soon." Tim reached up and ended the call on his headset, carefully taking it off and leaning down, placing both the phone and his earpiece on the ledge before he straightened, turning his back on the city and waiting quietly until the moon rose above the peak of the building, shining brightly down on him. Fresh tears tracked down his cheeks as he took a half step back, his heel off the edge of the building, his heart pounding in his chest. Adrenaline surged and he let out a choked sob, his breath hitching on every inward draw as he let everything he'd held back consume him. Everything he'd ever needed to allow to overwhelm him, he let bubble up like the dark, festering wound it had always been. 

When it came to him, the world opening up behind him, Tim only closed his eyes and let it happen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you know this song pierces an ache between my ribs. Some of you even know why. Imagine a pain of utmost intensity and then imagine inflicting it upon yourself on repeat for nearly two hours to write this. The pain here is real, that much I promise.  
> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Amazing Grace" by Susan Boyle / "Satisfied Mind" by Jeff Buckley

Tim had never imagined that he'd find himself watching his own funeral less than a week later. When he'd thought of the afterlife, he'd always imagined he'd pay for his misjudgments in life; that he'd find himself strung up in some shadowy part of hell. He'd never honestly considered that he'd end up one of the ghosts left wandering the planet. 

When he'd been alive, he recalled thinking that ghosts always had some unresolved business or other, that they'd died before their time and that the afterlife just wasn't ready for them. It was a strange feeling to know that he'd been right; it was only that he had no idea what his unfinished business was and he had become increasingly aware in the past week that most of the ghosts he wandered past didn't either. They were all stuck somewhere between here and whatever else there was and Tim felt for them, he really did. He'd spent hours sitting on a street corner in downtown Gotham, watching everyone - the living and the dead - pass him by, watching them grow wearier with every step they took. And he ached for it.

The first day had been like a dream. From the moment he had stepped free of his mortal bindings to the second he'd found himself standing in the morgue beside his own body as the coroner brought Bruce in to identify him. He'd watched Bruce's face harden to stone, watched his jaw clench in a manner that told him just how unspeakable this loss was to him; just how hard of a blow it had been. 

When he followed him home that night, it had been only to watch a grown man dissolve. But even there, right beside Bruce as he let go of whatever fragile grip he'd ever had on sanity, Tim hadn't regretted his own actions. The relief he felt deep inside of his mind was tantamount to nothing else. The broken body he'd left on the street had held a million regrets, had clung to a hundred things he never would have been able to let go of. This new existence held none of that. It allowed him a freedom he hadn't known since he'd been a small child; he wouldn't have given it up for anything. Perhaps that was selfish, seeing Bruce in so much pain and still wanting to remain as he was. It wasn't like he could take his suicide back and here - here - he held no capacity to regret.

As he brought his thoughts back to the present, Tim watched as people streamed into the church. He saw people from Wayne Industries, some of them looking utterly numb with shock, some of them just looking sad, and others that looked only like they wanted to bolt right back out the door. Not that he could blame them. Funerals were never his strong suit and he'd had more than his share in the past few months. 

There were people he remembered from school and a few very distant relatives he barely recognized. In the very front, he found a cluster of people he knew all too well. Bruce and Jason, Stephanie and Barbara, Alfred and Jim. A few other officers from the force he knew he'd spoken to over the phone and a hundred more people he didn't know at all. As he drifted through the crowd, he began to put two and two together. He found each of those he didn't really know wore a small button somewhere on their person or their possessions, a tiny golden double R. Many held a secondary badge of a single R and a few with even a splash of red painted over an otherwise black background. It gave him pause, had him standing in their midst, realizing who some of these people were: people they'd saved, people whose lives they'd changed. People mourning the loss of someone who had given them another chance at life. He saw the anguish written in these faces and it came to him, entirely unexpected. 

He drifted amongst them as they took the seats in the back rows, as they all settled in entirely wordlessly, as they began to pass around small candles and lighters; and he realized Bruce had allowed this one to be far more public than any of the others. That while some of their funerals had been closed and they'd found people outside mourning the loss of a hero, Tim's had been left open.

Making his way down the vacant center aisle, Tim paused at the front, watched the preacher open his book and begin to read. He closed his eyes and listened to the silence of the room, to the creak of the wooden pews, to the aborted breaths of hundreds of people doing their best not to dissolve, and he still found only relief in it. Maybe that was selfish. Maybe it was the opposite of what he should have felt, but it was - at least - the truth. Even in life he'd always perceived suicide as a regrettable way to die, as something one would be condemned for. Maybe he was, maybe he was condemned to walk this earth like this forever because of his own actions. He couldn't say and really, it felt irrelevant for the time being.

A few steps brought him to the edge of the pew, to the empty spot to Jason's right and he settled down on the bench, reaching to put his hand over Jason's own, turning to watch as Jason tilted his head back, his breath hitching as he did his best not to lose it. He could see the capacity in Jason's eyes, the need to let it all out, and he couldn't blame him in the least for it. Tears tracked down his cheeks and Tim wanted to reach up and wipe them away, ached to do it, though he didn't move to even so much as try, knowing it would be a lost cause.

The sound of a book closing brought him back and he watched as a young man took the stage, settling down on a single chair beside Tim's coffin, resting his acoustic guitar in his lap. The strum of notes began so softly it threatened to take his breath away and when the melody of it became clear, it left Tim feeling shocked. He remembered speaking these words once, remembered telling Dick one time so very long ago that if he ever died in the line of duty that he wanted this song played at his funeral. He remembered the look in Dick's eyes, the one that shone of pain for an instant before it dissolved away into something else entirely, covered up and pushed away. Tim had honestly thought Dick had known something in that instant that Tim himself hadn't and now that he sat here, listening to the song he'd only told a single person on Earth about, he wondered, who had Dick told before he'd been claimed from this Earth?

Jason's breath hitched and as soon as the words came in on the song, Jason began to sing them as well, a few voices from the back picking up after a line, bringing up the emotion of the moment. The more people that joined in, the clearer Tim could hear Jason's voice, the stronger his resolve seemed to become. Then Tim knew...he knew that Jason was the one person in this world that Dick had confided in and had told this singular little wish to. He'd been so determined to ensure Tim's wishes that he'd made damn sure the most immortal of them all had been passed the information. 

Tim eased himself against Jason's shoulder, closing his eyes and picking up the lyrics as they came to the last few lines. "But one thing's for certain, when it comes my time. I'll leave this world with a satisfied mind." He left the last words to everyone else, just listening to their voices mingle with one another, listening to the beauty of the moment they were creating and letting it imprint itself upon his soul. 

When the young man moved to leave the stage, Tim stood as well, sparing one last glance at those in the church, finding the remains of the Titans standing along the back wall, completely in uniform. He was another name, another face added to the list of heroes that had been lost. He could see the grief in their faces and maybe, just for an instant, he felt the barest hint of regret; it was gone in an instant, fluttering away as if it had never been there to begin with, and he walked passed them, his fingertips lightly touching each of their hands.

Stepping outside, he made his way past a few hundred more people, past candles and photos, past the solemn crowd and across the street and into the park. Once within the bounds of the greener side of the street, he allowed himself a glance backwards, a last look at everyone who grieved his loss, and whispered, "Goodbye."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: The Rose"" by Bette Midler

Tim stood in front of his grave marker, studying the fresh lettering of his name, the date of his birth and death written across it. The lack of an inscription beyond that was, perhaps, a bit disheartening, but he should have expected it, given even Damian's had only had some lame words about him having been a son across it and Dick's... well, it was exactly what he'd expected. 

Kneeling down, he reached out, touching the air just in front of the stone and then backing up from it. He'd already been here three times since his body had been placed in the earth. Every time he felt that peculiar compulsion to return to his body's side, he would come and stand here for a few minutes until it passed. It was odd... feeling like he was being pulled back toward what remained of _himself_ , but he was, again and again. But there was no point in dwelling on it at the present moment, he supposed.

Standing up, he turned away from the freshly turned earth and headed back toward the manor. He'd avoided going in while anyone was home so far, but he knew that had to change today. He had to see Alfred, to see Bruce... and Titus. He felt bad for the poor dog; the way he stood watch at Damian's door, once in a while whimpering, as though he thought for sure Damian was on the other side of it, just withholding his presence from him. He supposed no one had let Titus see Damian's actual body and once he'd been interned it was too deep for even his nose to understand. He'd found that Titus could sense him the one night he'd gone in when everyone had been out, Alfred driving Bruce somewhere. He'd been nearly snarled out of the joint by the dog and he couldn't find it in him to blame Titus one bit. He'd probably have panicked at some strange apparition if he'd been able to see them when he'd been alive, too.

Stopping just outside the door, he pursed his lips, then slipped in through the door, meandering around the lower level until he found Alfred by the sound of dishes in the kitchen. He could hear him handwashing them before he ever entered the room and he almost had a small smile on his face as he approached him. Pulling himself up on his familiar spot on the counter - noting it was still devoid of anything despite the inordinate amount of things cluttering the surfaces in the room - he settled, legs dangling and his hands resting his lap as he watched Alfred. Reaching down, he put one hand on the countertop, studying it for a moment, wondering for the hundredth time how he was able to pass through some things and settle on others like he was just as solid as he'd once been. It was as if he could do it at will and that his desire to do so was at such a base level that he didn't even register it. 

Flicking his eyes back up as Alfred turned, his breath stuck in his throat and the ache in his chest was immediate. Tears were tracking down Alfred's face, soaking into the starched collar of his shirt. He looked so much older than he had days before, like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders in the short time since the funeral. Tim held back a whine that wanted up, letting his shoulders droop as he studied what Alfred was doing, realizing he was baking cookies. For whom was an entirely different matter. Only Jason remained and Tim hadn't seen him anywhere near here, not even when he'd been laid to rest. Jason had disappeared right after the funeral and a few checks of his apartment and the one place Tim knew he kept as a safe house had come up empty. 

Shifting a little, Tim watched the cookies go into the oven and then watched as Alfred drooped down into a chair, his face in his hands as he utterly dissolved. 

Unable to watch it any longer, Tim pushed off of the counter and turned away from it, making his way through the house, up the stairs and toward Damian's room. Titus was, predictably, lying on the ground in front of his door, sound asleep. The moment Tim stepped off the last step, he was awake, standing and staring right at Tim, his head bowed slightly and a shallow growl bubbling up from his throat. 

Tim took the three steps up to him and then knelt down, holding out his hand in the very same way he'd once done, years ago when he'd first met him. And just like that, Titus was there, sniffing at his hand as if it were substantial, as if he could really understand that Tim was there. He kept sniffing for what seemed like forever and it slowly registered that he had no scent anymore and perhaps that alone was what was wigging the dog out. "It's okay, boy... you know me. We've known each other for a long time, hmm?" He waited, watched as Titus slowly eased up and then plopped his butt down on the floor, tail giving a half of a wag. The thin whine that came out left Tim with an ache in his heart as he slid down onto the floor, leaning back against Damian's door and patting his lap. 

Titus came and Tim thought as hard as he could about making himself real enough to let Titus feel him, even if just for a single moment in time. Not even a second later, he felt the weight of Titus' head on his leg, heard the dog huff out a breath, and he reached down, slowly sliding his hand over Titus' head, stroking him in the same way he'd always watched Damian do it. "I miss him, too, buddy, trust me. Without him... without Di-" his voice cracked and he let out a little whine of his own, causing Titus to do it again as well.

Leaning his head back against the door, he let himself _feel_ again for the first time since he'd been dead. Tears slowly tracked down his face as he whispered out, "You know, some part of me had hoped," he had to catch his breath, it hitching far too much as he tried to keep back the flood that wanted out, "I'd see them after I died. That we'd all go to the same place, you know? But...we didn't. I'm _stuck_." Titus huffed again and Tim gave the weakest of smiles, knowing Titus was listening to him at the very least, even if he couldn't respond in any real way.

He sat there for hours, whispering his thoughts out loud, knowing he was safe here, within the confines of the manor, only Titus knowing he existed in such a way. Night fell and Tim finally pushed himself up, meandering through the house, making his way down into the cave and to Bruce's side. He sat at the computer and Tim watched as he flicked through files, not really picking up what he was exactly looking at until he watched the way Bruce's hands shook. When he looked at the screen, he found the records of every one of his and Damian's conversations on Dick's old phone. Transcripts of every single voicemail and text and of every word they'd ever spoken to one another in such a manner. And he watched Bruce break; watched as the man who'd always been so damn broken he couldn't be picked apart any further, fall apart. He watched the anger and the anguish and he finally found his regret as it began to blossom across his chest; pain like a bullet wound digging deep into his soul. 

Turning away, Tim finally spoke his first words to Bruce in all of this as he walked away. "I never meant for it to hurt you. I... I'm sorry, Bruce."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song[s]: Various by Brambles

Tim spent the better part of the next few days going between his grave, keeping Titus company, and spending a lot of time alone inside of Jason's home. He still hadn't returned from wherever he had disappeared off to and while it left Tim a bit hollow inside to be without any human company, he also understood it was something he had to start getting used to. It just didn't feel right to bother people who weren't invested in him; to look into their lives the same way he was his own family members. Maybe that was selfish of him, to think his actions were acceptable as long as it was people he knew that he was effectively spying on. But he hadn't really known Dick when he'd first started spying on him all those years ago. Yet, he'd done it anyway.

He curled up on Jason's couch, resting his head against one of the pillows... and he waited. He could have waited forever and he was extraordinarily aware of it; the passage of time still feeling very much the same as it had when he'd been amongst the living. He was certain days meandered past before he finally heard Jason's door opening. Pushing himself up from the chair he'd been perched on in Jason's bedroom, he made his way out into the living room, standing behind the couch as he watched Jason come in with several bags of groceries and a duffle slung over his shoulder. 

The door slammed shut and Jason cursed under his breath as he headed straight for the kitchen. The rustling of the paper bags was like music to Tim's ears, giving him something to focus on that wasn't his own mind. Trailing after Jason, he stood in the doorway and watched him as he darted around the room, putting everything away. He looked tired; like he hadn't slept in days and Tim didn't doubt that was the truth. It was a known fact that Jason would run himself ragged when he got really onto something and no one would hear from him for weeks and then he'd just pop back up like nothing had happened, ever-silent about whatever it was that had caused him to go off-grid for so long. 

For an instant, Tim wondered why he'd never tried to tail him, to see where he was going when he got into one of those moods. But no one else ever had, not even Bruce to his knowledge. It was as if they understood that if he were going in that deep into something it was because he needed away from them all, away from whatever else was going on in his life. Tim could understand that, maybe more than he wanted to admit; though why he'd never thought it when he was alive, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was self-absorption that had prevented such insight or perhaps the clouding of his mind as it threatened to break into a million pieces every single night.

Jason finished putting everything away and shouldered his bag, slipping past Tim in a way that, had he acknowledged Tim at all, would have made him feel like he knew he was there. He turned and followed Jason through the living room and into his bedroom; where he ditched the bag and plopped down to start taking his boots off. Standing there, at the foot of his bed, Tim watched him, wondering if he was being idiotic in thinking what he was. There was no way Jason could see him. He'd never seen a ghost when he'd been alive and he figured if Jason could see such things, he'd have mentioned it at some point. Which left the possibility that Jason was picking him in another kind of way; like the prickle of being watched that set off their senses, but with an understanding that it wasn't any _one_ doing it. In a way, it was a comfort to know that he could, perhaps, be felt in some small way.

Jason pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the chair Tim had sat on earlier. When he reached for his belt and began to unfasten it, Tim turned away, going to stand by the window, gazing out over the city below them. 

The sound of the water turning on in the bathroom a few minutes later was the only indication that Jason had left the room and it brought a smile to Tim's face. Stealthy as he'd always been. It wasn't something anyone gave Jason credit for, because he used everything else to his advantage; the showy parts of his personality and the loudness of a good ass-kicking to attract more attention. But Tim had seen him more than once in situations that required absolute silence from them all and he'd _always_ thought Jason did it best. It was almost as if he could make himself weightless for the express purpose of never creaking a single floorboard or disturbing a single leaf of a tree. 

Settling on the edge of his bed, Tim sat cross-legged, and he waited; waited on Jason, waited on time, and waited on whatever this was supposed to be. One day, perhaps, it would make miles more sense and he'd find the idea of him having to sit here and contemplate it almost silly.

Eventually Jason came back, a pair of sweatpants hanging so low on his hips that he was sure they were about to fall off. He'd have teased Jason about them if he'd been able to and, as it was, a smile quirked his lips as all of the things he'd normally say bubbled up in his throat. Not a word crossed his lips, but he let himself think them as Jason settled into bed, drawing the covers up around him and reaching over to turn on the alarm. 

Tim turned, settling once more, his elbow on his thigh as he propped his chin on his palm, just watching Jason's breath, listening to the way it evened out as he slid closer and closer to sleep. Slowly, Tim's own eyelids fell shut and he slumped over right where he was, falling into a deep sleep for the first time since he'd gained this form. If he'd been asked if he'd thought it possible, he would have said no, never, a ghost wouldn't need to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Holding Your Absence" by Hammock / "Pure as Snow" by Mono

Tim sat on the ledge of a building next to Jason, the other crouched low, scanning the city below them. Somewhere in the distance police sirens went up; when Tim closed his eyes, he could sense the direction the vehicle was heading in. It was probably the sixth one in the past hour that they'd heard from the various vantage points Jason took them to. Gotham... she was busy tonight. Busy being a horrible place for good citizens, busy being a hub of a ruthless underground that traded in drugs and people and sex, busy being unable to stop any of what was happening in her midst. 

It had always come hard to Tim knowing that someplace he'd tried his best to protect was still just as filthy as when he'd started. It meant she was getting worse with each passing night. When there were more of them and more arrests and yet everything remained the same from night to night. The only logical conclusion he could ever draw was that it meant they were only stemming an ever-widening flow of the worst things the world had to offer. Three would breed for every three they'd take in; and that was the times they were lucky. The times they stayed ahead of the race. 

Tonight it felt like a fight that they were losing. Without him, without Damian or Dick, without so many others he couldn't even bring himself to think of, it seemed a hundred times more hopeless than it had when he'd left. He dug his fingers against the concrete of the ledge, turning his head to study Jason as he finally stood. Tim imagined the way his jaw was probably set behind his mask, the way his eyes belayed his determination. It was something he'd only seen a few times, when Jason left the hood at home, pulled out a mask that was so like a phantom of his past. But it had always left a memory with him, a mark on his life to be witness to such resolve. A man beaten, broken, _killed_ , and brought back to life - and he'd come back out the other side stronger, at least in Tim's opinion. Maybe not at first, though Jason didn't talk about that much, but eventually, over time and with a few helping hands along the way, he'd come out the other side with a strength of character that should have been overwhelming - would have been if he'd thrown it around - but he never did. It just wasn't how he went about living his life.

Tim pushed himself up and waited on Jason's move, watching him instead of everything else around them. He didn't have to worry about covering himself, about living through a perpetually possibly ambush or dodging a bullet or anything else. Not anymore. Not like this. It left him free to take in _Jason_ ; the man he'd butted heads with on more than one occasion and yet, the man he'd respected for being able to take a step that none of the rest of them could at times. 

Jason leapt off the building, rolling across the fire escape below, then swinging over the edge to land in the alley right behind two men who were obviously running from something. The sound of an explosion came a few seconds later and Tim let himself free-fall off the building, hitting the ground running and tore off after Jason and the pair he was following. Two blocks and Tim turned a corner, watching as Jason slammed one of the men into the wall, whirling on the other and blocking his blade as he tried to drive it into Jason's side. A few pathetic attempts later and Jason stopped playing around, dropping both of them, tying them up and dragging them out onto the street corner, dumping them there. 

The sound of footsteps raced toward them and - just like that - Jason was gone, blending into the night in a way Tim was _certain_ Bruce was sincerely proud of. He'd always taught them to be flashy, to be a piece of something distracting. Or maybe it was better described as a target because it forced you to deal with learning to not be arrogant a hell of a lot faster than blending into the night did. Shadows were their friends, but only as long as the lights weren't on.

Tim caught up to Jason a few blocks over, just as he would have if they'd been running the night as a duo. It'd always been easy for him to predict Jason's direction, even if he couldn't see or hear him. He inherently knew where he was going to end up. It came with knowing someone so damn well that you'd trust your entire life to them over and over, night after night. He'd been the same with Bruce and with Dick, even with-

He cut himself off from the thought, following behind Jason, forcing himself to focus on the here and now rather than the past. 

Jason headed for the docks and Tim knew from experience that meant drugs or weapons. It probably meant Batman as well and he felt a little surge of happiness at that; at the idea of getting to see Bruce out here in all his glory, working alongside the only one of his sons he had left. Tim wondered if Jason would willingly put himself back into Bruce's life again, or if they'd remain as they were - distant, but amicable when the situation called for it. 

Tim settled on top of one of the cargo crates, legs dangling over the edge, and settled in for the wait. It was almost an hour before a car pulled up, almost directly under him. Two men got out, going around and opening the trunk, dragging another man out of it; this one tied up and beat to hell and back. He stumbled when he walked and Tim could hear the hitch in his breath that meant he was lucky to even be alive right then. One of the men grasped his arm and yanked, the bound man's breath catching and then continuing. A few stumbled steps and Tim saw the flash of a badge on his belt.

His gaze whipped to Jason, watching him as he darted off along the crates, moving as if he were weightless between each one. The men came up under him and Jason went down hard on one of them, crouching over the man, one hand on his throat as he aimed at the other and put a single bullet between his eyes. All he did was aim his gun at the one on the ground and the man was talking, sputtering up some name or other. A few more words and Tim imagined Jason was pressing him for information, though he couldn't hear it from up here. Another gunshot and then Jason was putting away his piece, hauling the police officer up and freeing him, though he didn't take the man's blindfold off. 

When he reached for it, Tim very clearly heard Jason's voice. "Twenty seconds before you touch that thing. And remember I saved your life when you write this shit up." Just like that, he was gone again and Tim was up and running, veering off across the docks in the way he knew Jason liked to go when they had the chance. 

It was odd how death didn't bother him anymore. It had when he'd been alive. Every time Jason would claim a life, Tim would end up arguing with him how something else could have worked; had adamantly taken Bruce's side for years. Now... it just didn't seem to matter all that much when it came to the scum infesting the streets of Gotham. 

He heard a scream and he turned to run toward it out of nothing but instinct. He turned the corner into an alleyway, hesitating for just an instant as he watched a teenage boy get shoved face first against the brick wall. He heard the snap of a bone breaking somewhere in the kid's wrist and then the stream of, "Please no. Not again. Please. God." He moved forward, darting along the shadows, waiting and wondering where the hell Jason was. 

The sound of a zipper being undone left Tim shuddering and then the boy was struggling again, crying out in pain as the man pulled him back and then slammed him harder into the wall. "Stay still, street rat!"

Anger welled up inside of Tim and he darted over to the dumpster a bit down the alleyway, reaching down and doing his best to grasp at anything in the junk pile next to it. But nothing he tried to get would let him touch it and he found himself desperate, trying his best to grab anything. Another scream wrenched free of the kid's lungs and Tim turned just in time to watch Jason grab a hold of the man, dragging him backwards, hissing out, "Run," to the kid. Jason slammed the man against the wall where the kid had been, knee up between his legs and his hand on the back of his head, grinding his face into the bricks. The other hand held both of the guy's hands behind his back.

Tim crept closer, kneeling and watching Jason; how he was tensed, the anger obvious in the way he held himself. He knew he was holding back, that he was determined to do so, though he didn't quite understand why until he heard Jason hiss out, "I said _run_ , kid. Get the hell out of here."

Footsteps rushed away on the other side of the alleyway and Tim watched... waiting. The instant they faded away, Jason moved so fast it left even Tim's mind reeling. He let the man go completely, pulled his knife from his belt, and slit the man's throat in what had to be under two seconds. The guy went down and Jason knelt beside his gurgling body. "I know who you are. I know what you've been doing. And I know it did no good when _he_ locked you up. This is how you pay. Repeating the past, heedless to our warnings." Jason wiped his knife on the man's clothing and then stood, walking away as the man sputtered for his last breath.

Tim watched as the man died; remained behind and studied the way his eyes glassed over and the way _death_ settled around him. Sure, he'd seen death many times in his line of work, but never so intimately. Never without worrying about what came next or being entirely distraught because it was one of their own. Never had he felt so _cold_ about the loss of a life. But as he watched, he felt nothing. No anger, no sadness, no caring. When he was certain the man was beyond revival by any standard means, he stood and simply walked away, his hands in his pockets and his thoughts a million miles away.

Sometimes people deserved to pay.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: Album "I Could Live In Hope" by Low  
> Thought this chapter was appropriate to post on Memorial Day in a way.

A cold wind cut through Gotham, bringing with it a flurry of snow from the incoming storms. Tim had watched the news with Jason the night before, seeing the storm fronts moving in and watched as Jason set out the better insulating under-gear for his armor to use in the days to come. 

Things had been strange with Jason lately. There were times Tim could have almost sworn Jason was looking at him, but even when he tried to communicate with him, he received no reply. That and the fact that Jason had been cutting a proverbial warpath through Gotham made Tim think things were a little out of place inside Jason's world. Maybe that was why he'd up and left... or maybe it was just that he was trying to get a hold of himself a little bit better. Either way, Tim decided it was time to stop haunting Jason's house, to move on for a while and give the guy a rest.

He'd figured out a week or so ago that he caused cold spots wherever he was and that each time he stood too close or got in the way of someone walking, he'd almost take their breath away with how cold they suddenly became. It had to be unpleasant, at best, and he'd been making a concerted effort not to let people walk through him anymore. He wasn't sure if it was getting worse or if he'd just been too absorbed in the newness of his situation to see it before, but he did think it a bit strange that he hadn't noticed it before. 

Out here tonight, though, Tim was sure he wasn't the coldest thing about this city. He felt cold even though it was only from the impression of what was happening weather-wise; he felt like he should be bundled up to be out here in this.

Wandering through the side streets and back alleys, he made his way toward the very place he'd died. He wasn't sure what was compelling him to come back to it; he knew it felt nothing like the compulsion to visit his grave. Whatever it was, he saw no reason to deny it, no reason not to seek out a place he'd been unconsciously avoiding since he'd given up his life. 

Stepping out of the alley, Tim hurried down the sidewalk behind a group of people, pausing and then slipping inside behind one of the girls as they broke off from the group, bidding the others goodnight and entering the building. He trailed after her, joining her on the elevator, remaining on the other side of it as they rode upwards. They stopped on the last floor and Tim followed her out, making his way toward the stairs, feeling panic rising in his throat as she did the very same. 

Together they made their way up the staircase, two flights and then out into the Gotham night. Up here Tim had the impression that the air was like ice; the wind stinging like a whip. They walked around to the very same side Tim had made his exit from the world from and when they came around the edge of the cooling unit, Tim stopped dead in his tracks. The impression of a knot forming in his throat left him feeling stricken and he suddenly _felt_ cold, even though he knew he couldn't. 

Tentatively, he followed after the girl, trailing along her path between hundreds of candles, dozens of letters, and random trinkets. He watched as she walked closer to the edge and knelt down. Moving to her side, he peered down at what she was doing, finding that his staff was still there, along with his phone propped up behind it in a plastic baggy to keep it from the elements. Someone had found it and someone had _known_. 

Tim knelt beside her, leaning over his staff and peering at the bag, studying the work of how it had been sealed away... and he knew; knew with a certainty that he hadn't felt in a long time. Bruce had left the phone here. 

He stood and turned, settling on the ledge and watching as the girl's lips moved in a silent prayer, as she touched the staff and then whispered, "May his rest find him the peace he was seeking." Hunching over a candle, she shielded it from the wind and struck a match, lowering it into the glass and lighting it. Standing back up, she moved amongst the candles, picking up the papers and gathering them. From under the edge of the cooling unit, she drew out a plastic pouch, unzipping it and sliding the letters into it.

As she went back to gather a few more of them, Tim followed, catching glimpses of them, committing them to memory as he began to realize just what this was. 

_RR,  
I came here tonight to do what you did. I intended to do what many before you had done. But when I found this, I decided... maybe one more night. One more day-_

_Red Robin,  
If only you'd known the hope you gave us, that you gave Gotham-_

_May he rest alongside every other innocent soul who came here to find their last breath._

_Robin, You saved me once. I only wish we could have saved you._

Each and every note struck home harder than Tim had ever expected them to. He let the girl move on, picking up the notes one by one, let her move through and light the candles she could, even as snow began to fall. Some things he'd known would be hard: visiting those he loved, visiting those he'd lost... he'd understood the grief that would come from those when he'd first found himself able to move through this existence. _This_ he hadn't been prepared for, _couldn't_ have been prepared for. 

He'd seen people mourn Dick, had seen the ribbons on the fences and even added a few himself. He'd seen the shock on people's faces over Damian, but nothing more than that; he thought now that was probably because of how far gone he had been in his own head by then. This city... it mourned in its own way; grieved the losses of the heroes amongst them just as deeply as those who really knew them did. It had never ever occurred to him that he'd become a symbol of hope in his final departure from life, but here he was, at the most notorious place for suicide in all of Gotham; a place that now seemed to be trying desperately to cling to hope instead of fear, pain and grief. 

Drawing his legs up to his chest, he settled his chin against his knees and let himself take a good look at the objects left behind. A few of the RR pins he'd seen on the people at his funeral, even a few drawings on the ground beneath candles with his emblem. Random trinkets, things he was sure someone had come up here with in their own state of agony; things that they clung to in the same way Tim had been clinging to Dick's voicemail. As he sat there, he wondered just how many deaths this had prevented; how many people had reconsidered once they'd arrived at this very spot to find what could have been a memorial but instead was, perhaps, a brighter beacon than the Bat symbol itself. And he wondered if Bruce was the only one who knew about it inside the family.

Pushing himself up, Tim trailed after the girl as she hunched up in her coat and hurried back toward the door to the stairwell. He could have gotten down however he wanted, but it felt wrong to jump from here again, wrong to allow such a hollow reenactment of his own demise. Together, they made their way back down to the lobby and back outside. She paused on the sidewalk and Tim allowed himself a single touch to her shoulder, breathing out a quiet, "Thank you," before he turned and walked away.

He wandered for hours, meandering through the city streets in a way that he felt was almost aimless - except it wasn't. He knew it wasn't when he found himself in front of Stephanie's door, his hand raised to knock, no matter how _silly_ that was, given his current state. He stood there for a moment, hesitant, knowing he'd been avoiding this for far longer than he should have. She wasn't really family, per se, but he knew her distress over his death was probably still just a poignant and he'd been doing his best not to have to see it. After all he'd seen up there tonight, he knew he had to.

Stepping through the door, he found her sitting cross-legged on her computer chair, leaning on one armrest as she read whatever was up on her screen. He leaned against the wall, watching her, seeing the way her lips barely moved as she read whatever it was. Anger lanced across her features and she was typing furiously in the next second, lashing out at whoever or whatever it was she'd been reading. 

Tim moved then, leaning over to read the screen, finding she had two windows up, side by side. One held her official Twitter and the other her email. She had the Twitter up to her messages page and Tim could see the start of each conversation, a lot of them clearly in the 'sorry for your loss' sort of realm. But another part of them entirely held confessions of sort; people admitting they'd contemplated things, telling her the start of things that Tim imagined would have been very hard to read if he'd been able to see the rest of it. 

Her email, into which she was still madly typing held only the last part of a note that Tim could see from where she was replying. It seemed to imply that he was better off where he was and that she needed to stop coddling the city and tell these losers to at least man up enough to do what Tim had done. He stared at the letter, disgust filling him. Glancing back up, he watched her words appearing across the screen, the venom she was throwing back at this person, at their utter disrespect to the dead and to those who needed _help_. What he read left him wishing like hell he'd let someone else in sometimes; that he hadn't only relied on a single person each time, only to have them ripped away from him again and again.

She spoke of things like how everyone deserved to feel loved and needed, like they mattered in life. Her words implied how much she would have helped him if only he'd reached out to her and how devastated they were to find out that such a great human being, such a kind and loving soul, had been burdened and how they'd never fully realized it. She told of how they all blamed themselves for not seeing it, for not reaching out to him when he'd withdrawn from them all. And she spoke of how she felt that sometimes when a person was saddled with a mental disease that it was sometimes beyond their own ability to fix. That sometimes it required medication or therapy or both. And how no one should ever have to be judged for needing that to _live_. 

Tim took a few steps back and quietly sat down on her couch, drawing his legs up and pushing his face against his knees. Right there, in Stephanie's living room - a place he'd been a hundred times - he let himself go. He let everything come tumbling out, knowing she'd never hear him and that it was all entirely futile. But he let it come, let every word release itself into the world around him and he felt everything easing as he did it; felt the old familiar freedom Dick and Damian had once offered him. 

Turning to rest his cheek against his knee, he reached up to wipe at his face. "I thought this would change it all, Steph... I thought I'd be free. For a while, I was. But I'm not. I just trapped myself in another version of Hell... and I have only me to blame for that." He let his hand fall back to the couch, closing his eyes, and breathed out a sigh.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Lullaby" by Low / "Wishful Thinking" by The Album Leaf

Yet again, Tim found himself being pulled toward his own grave. He'd denied the pull of it all night, choosing instead to watch Jason out on the streets. He watched him take down and tie up criminal after criminal. There was a pride that Jason took in his work that Tim had never really noticed when he'd been alive. Really, he wasn't sure any of them had sincerely taken such a thing into account as even a possibility back then. Now, he could see it as nothing else. Jason was all pride and determination, brilliance and a fight that should have been astounding to anyone who ever saw him. But they didn't see him that way; hadn't ever bothered to look at any of them in such a way, really. 

Tim turned and settled down against his headstone, his feet flat on the ground, arms dangling between his legs as he tilted his head back and let the sun shine down on his face. At least it was bright out for once; winter had faded for the briefest of moments. He closed his eyes and pretended like he could feel the heat of the sun, let himself believe he needed to take each breath that he did. 

Minutes faded into hours and Tim's focus began to drift; a sense of tiredness coming over him that he hadn't experienced since being at Jason's place the night he'd slept on the foot of his bed. The ground felt unpleasant and his skin crawled with a prickling sensation that left him shuddering, drawing away from his desire to sleep. He reached to push himself up shakily, feeling a growing sense of fear as he did, but not understanding it in the least.

Little wisps of black smoke drifted from his fingertips and Tim stared down at them, panic gripping him as he watched a part of him start to dissolve. A low whimper bubbled up from inside of him as the pain grew stronger by the moment. Panting, Tim threw back his head and screamed as agony blossomed in his chest. 

The sound of something running through the grass teased at the edges of what was left with his consciousness and he managed a pained whimper as he collapsed back against his headstone, trembling as what was left of his fingers began to claw at his chest, as if he could rip out whatever was hurting him so badly if only he could get to it. 

Something warm and wet shoved up under his palm and Tim gasped as everything eased up on him. Swallowing hard, he opened his eyes and looked down, finding Titus nuzzling under his hand. The dog gave a sharp whimper and Tim let his shoulders slump, relaxing as he moved to stroke over the dog's head, watching as his fingers reformed themselves with every stroke. 

Exhaustion settled in again and Tim moved his legs, letting Titus plop down between them, his head resting on Tim's thigh. "I need to sleep." He rubbed absently behind one of the dog's ears, closing his eyes and letting his breath hitch slightly on the intake. "Protect me from whatever that was, okay?" Titus gave a little tiny half-bark that Tim took as agreement and he slowly relaxed against the headstone, fading from consciousness.

Hours later, Tim woke as Titus gave a sharp bark, jerked out of his sleep, though he didn't move in the slightest aside from opening his eyes. It was almost dark, the sun slowly sliding down behind the horizon, and Tim realized he'd slept longer than he ever had when he'd been alive. Though, he supposed, the fact that he didn't sleep most of the time now made it an even trade off. 

He glanced around, seeing Alfred slowly coming down from the house toward the cemetery. Giving Titus another pat, Tim moved his hand and gestured for him to go. "Don't make him walk all the way down here. Go on. I'll come up in a few."

Titus stood, stretched hard enough that he shook slightly, and then took off toward Alfred at full-speed, Tim smiling after him. Stretching his own muscles out, Tim turned to study his grave and then to look at Damian's, so close to his own. There was still less grass on Damian's grave than on Tim's own and he found himself frowning over that. If he were taking care of the grounds, he'd have sewn then ground with seeds by now, forced the illusion of something proper no matter what. He supposed there was something keeping it from happening; perhaps the soil wasn't as nutrient rich as it was in other places or perhaps someone had killed one too many weeds here in the past, leaving the ground slightly poisoned. 

Whatever it was, it left Tim staring at Damian's grave for far longer than he'd meant to and it caused thoughts to bubble up within him. He wondered why he'd never seen Damian's ghost. Granted, he didn't see everyone and that meant some people were eligible to pass on faster than others, he supposed. But with all that they'd done in their lives and with how attached they had grown to one another, Tim felt like he should have had some inkling of his presence, even if he'd been and gone before he'd died. If Damian _was_ around in the same way, did he not feel the draw toward his own body the same way Tim did? Had he found a way to escape having to come back here all the time?

Heaving a sigh, Tim turned toward the house, slowly making his way up through the yard. By the time he arrived at the back door, the wind was starting to pick up, bringing in some ominous looking clouds. He paused, staring off toward them and wondering how it was that Gotham always attracted such horrible weather, as though she were paying a penance for something. He ran his hand over the banister and then mounted the steps, easily passing through the door and into the house, bypassing everything to head straight to the cave. 

Alfred sat at the computer, Titus at his feet, curled up and half dozing. Tim moved to the other side of the chair, standing with his arms crossed, watching everything on the screens. All the major drug and weapons trading centers were up on screen, as well as a few live feeds of high society events that were happening for the evening. 

For almost an hour, Tim watched as Alfred tracked Jason across the city, as though he were only concerned about his whereabouts and not at all with Bruce's. It struck him as odd, though he didn't say anything until Jason hit his comm and his voice came in across the line. "B, are you seeing this? This is the fifth member of the Court we've found this week like this." 

Tim scanned the screens until he found Jason, seeing him standing over a corpse that had been completely eviscerated. Alfred picked up a microphone, pressing it to his throat and speaking, his voice sounding like Bruce's across the line instead of his own. "Look into it. See what you can find out and send me whatever you come up with."

"Are you working on something else or what? I feel like the city hasn't seen you out here in weeks, B. I mean, I know you think I'm a bad ass and all that, but one man is not sufficient for Gotham."

Tim watched Alfred's shoulders slump, saw the distress in his reflection, and then, "There are bigger matters to attend to at the moment." He cut the line an instant later, dropping the microphone down on the desk and sitting back, pushing his hands through his hair and then shaking his head.

Something like dread pooled in Tim's stomach as he leaned against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. If Alfred was covering for Bruce it meant that he'd been gone too long to go unnoticed, and the way he was doing it made it seem like Alfred _knew_ where he'd disappeared off to. Tim glanced over at Titus, breathing out, "I wish you could tell me where he was, boy."

Titus lifted his head and whined, standing up a moment later and heading right for the cases containing all of their suits. Even Tim's was there, something he hadn't quite expected. He moved past it, following Titus until he plopped down right in front of Damian's suit, issuing a thin whine again. 

Movement from behind them encouraged Tim to step to the side. Alfred came to kneel beside Titus, gently stroking over his head. "I know. We all miss him..." Alfred's voice cracked and Tim let his frown deepen, his stance belaying his pain. "If he's successful, if Master Bruce can manage this, perhaps we will not be so alone. He has not heeded my warnings about how Master Jason was when he came back, but-"

Tim stopped listening, his mind instantly buzzing with what Bruce was planning on doing, knowing just how far he had to have been pushed to continue on this warpath. Pursing his lips, teeth grazing over the inside of his lips, he shook his head, walking away as he whispered out, "Foolish."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena

Tim knew he should have been investigating where Bruce was, what he was doing, but it was harder to figure things out when you didn't really have a physical existence to speak of. Working a computer was out of the question - something he'd tried several times - and he was quickly finding out that interacting with things he hadn't touched in life was harder than it looked. Though his gravestone was an odd exception to the rule and he would have spent more time worrying about the actual _cause_ of that if he hadn't been so focused on what was happening with Bruce and his potential game-changer for Damian. 

Part of him had been hurt, at first, that Bruce would have still been focused on bringing only Damian back. Not him. Not Dick. Not even Jason when he'd died. It had taken him a week or so to figure out that it was only the warpath Bruce had been on with Damian that kept him on the same trail, even now. Starting again with Tim would have only caused him to start thinking like it was a brand new investigation, whereas focusing on Damian meant only a continuation. Tim understood that; he really did.

Though, it also got him thinking: Why Damian? Why not Dick, the one they all knew had earned a special place in Bruce's life? It was something he'd been too crushed in his own heartache to even consider when he'd been alive and he suspected everyone else was in the same ballgame over that one. But now that he had all the time in the world to mull over how he was seeing things, it was starting to clarify the fogged up lenses he'd been gazing through for months. 

He sorted through the ideas - even talked them out to Titus at times - and the most plausible was simply that Damian's death had been one too many. He finally had a blood-born son and he hadn't even been able to protect a _child_. After all, Damian was the youngest of them all, and that had to sting in some horribly painful sort of way. 

The more he thought on it, the longer he spent trying to dig up Bruce's whereabouts. After a multitude of visits to his own grave, he found it troubling that Damian's grass still wasn't growing as well as his. It set his mind reeling over the possibilities. What if Damian wasn't buried here anymore? What if Bruce had already taken his body away from this place? What if something more was being done to it? What if... what if he were following the wrong trail all along?

It was that thought that led him to Dick's grave to figure out why Bruce hadn't reacted with gut-wrenching grief over the loss of his _first_ Robin... his first son. It had always been obvious that Bruce couldn't handle losing Dick. He'd watched with his own eyes as Robin left Batman's side, as he'd grown into Nightwing, and the animosity that had caused between them. But for all their distance in those times, their bond had still been the strongest. Their pain had always been caused by their love of one another. No matter how deep Bruce's grief was over losing Damian, Tim held no doubt in his mind that it should have been far worse over Dick's loss.

Which could mean only one thing: _Dick was alive_.

The revelation left Tim feeling numb and abandoned. He'd spent two days sitting in Jason's living room, staring blankly at the wall in front of him, interacting with absolutely nothing other than the couch he was sitting upon. When he'd finally snapped himself out of it, it had only been with an intensity of agony he hadn't been expecting, but he pushed through it, knowing beyond a doubt that if Dick was alive, he _had_ to find him first.

Weeks bled into nearly a month before Tim finally overturned all the right stones in the right order. When he did, it was with a certain amount of anger when he figured out that _Bruce_ had sent Dick away from them; had let the world think him dead. Anger gripped at him like a vice and held him fast. Tim _let_ it consume him as he set off on his journey to find Dick's actual location.

 _Nothing_ could stop him now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Blasphemy" by Bring Me The Horizon

It had been almost a week since Tim had last visited his grave site. The pull was unmistakable and he felt - at times - like someone had a vice around his heart, trying to reel him in while he clutched at his current location, fighting tooth and nail against it. It left his mind feeling fatigued and every movement felt like ice water being poured through his veins. But he was so close to Dick's location that he wouldn't give up, no matter the cost - even if it meant he'd lose all ability to interact with the things that he could or that he'd cease to exist in this way. It would all be worth it for a single glimpse of Dick, alive and well. 

The days had faded his anger to a slow burn, had mellowed out what had been cutthroat vengeance to a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. It was more a sense of betrayal than anything else; a sadness that with how much he'd depended on Dick, Bruce had still sent him away. The rational part of his mind told him that Bruce hadn't known until after he'd died how much he'd needed the people in his life to keep him grounded. The look on his face when he'd read the transcripts of his and Damian's conversations had been enough to tell him that much. 

Tim trudged onward, plodding one foot in front of the other until he found himself at the gates of some crazy-ass school for - as far as he could tell - training spies. It was ridiculous to think that Dick had ended up here somehow. While he understood that Bruce had forced his hand into going, he didn't understand why the school was the place he needed to be. Undercover in the deepest of ways, he supposed. The dead couldn't speak, he supposed; at least, not to the living. 

Less than an hour later, Tim settled himself on the grass outside, watching Dick and several girls rush around the grounds, a little smile on his lips as he watched him. There was still an underlying joy to everything that Dick did and Tim was glad that whatever had happened to him in all these months hadn't killed that spark. The longer he sat there, the longer he watched, the older and more incomplete he felt. His fingertips had already started to fade away into the blackest dust, wisping away on a breeze that couldn't touch the ghostly pieces of himself. 

When Dick landed on top of one of the buildings and then slipped down inside - into one of the rooms - Tim followed, determined to spend his last few minutes with him. He watched as Dick closed everything up and began to set up what looked suspiciously like a radio scrambler. Always the resourceful one... and always the diligent one, even though Tim knew Bruce hadn't been around for a long time now. 

Easing himself down onto the bed, he had to keep his body from moving in random jerky ways, everything in him wanting to rip itself apart. Concentrating on the room for a moment, Tim found the dresser and the trashcan overflowing with beer bottles. Frowning at it, he flicked his gaze back toward Dick. Either he was throwing hellish parties here or he had been slowly falling into a pit of his own creation along the way. Either were entirely possible as Tim knew Dick was a person who veered from one end of the spectrum to the other: happy to horribly sad in an instant. 

The idea struck him that Dick may have even found out about him: probably had. And if he had... then he was probably taking on some portion of the blame for what had happened to him. Anguish stung deep in Tim's chest, forcing him to move, pushing him up from the bed and bringing him to Dick's side. As he leaned over the radio, breathing out a report that Tim knew Bruce would never hear, Tim leaned down behind him, wrapping his arms around him and closing his eyes as he willed himself to be at least a little bit present for him in these last few seconds.

He felt Dick shiver, felt the hitch of his breath, and then he was fading, sucked into the horrible agony of whatever this existence was wherein he was being turned to black dust. As he faded away, Tim summoned up every ounce of willpower he had left and whispered out, "I forgive you."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Drown" by Bring Me The Horizon / "Can You Feel My Heart" by Bring Me The Horizon

When Tim next became conscious of the world around him, he found himself stumbling back into whatever pitiful form of existence this was right next to his own grave. His fingers clawed at his chest and his heart ached as if it had been damn near ripped from his chest. Everything narrowed for an instant and if he'd still been alive, Tim was certain he would have passed out in those precious seconds as the world tried to fade in and out again and again.

By the time he finally shook it off, he was leaning on his headstone, trembling from the effort of keeping himself together. He couldn't have explained it, but he felt _dry_ , like he was just a rotted out husk of what he had been in his last conscious moments before this. His head felt like a fog, as if his thoughts were turning to goo that had to make the slow flow through his synapses.

A spark of something zapped through his fingertips and he nearly gagged at the sensation, his head jerkily moving to look at his hands, finding a far more corporeal set nearly on top of his own. For one heart-stopping instant, Tim honestly thought his heart was going to simply explode as he looked right into the depths of such familiar green eyes.

_Damian._

Tears sprang up and he knew he couldn't have spoken if he'd even tried. Choking out a little sound, he slowly slid down to his knees, hands unmoving from beneath Damian's own as those pretty jade eyes tracked his movements. His breath gasped in and out of his lungs, his head feeling lighter by the second. 

From behind him, he felt an intense warmth, one that soothed him down from the edge of whatever this was in an instant. Titus' low whine filled the air and Tim closed his eyes, letting the dog's warmth fill him as he rested back against him, hands still clutching at his headstone. 

Opening his eyes, Tim drew in a steady breath of air, finding Damian's gaze again, breathing out a quiet, "You're alive." Once the words were out, he knew just how pointless they sounded coming from a _ghost_ , but he couldn't bring himself to care. Besides, it was probably a futile hope that Damian could hear him, even if he could see him. 

Titus gave another whimper and Damian whispered, "I know, Titus... I see him, too."

Something inside of Tim flip-flopped and he desperately wanted to move to embrace him, to reassure himself that Damian was really there. But something told him he couldn't interact like this without the stone between them. Instead, he stood there, letting the tears wet his face as he stared into Damian's beautiful face, watched the array of emotions cross over it: pain, disbelieve, anguish, belief... and hope. 

The longer Tim stood there, his hands and Damian's existing in the same space, the deeper the calmness within him became, the easier his breath came to him. Finally, he drew away, knowing he couldn't keep Damian standing here forever, and he turned, kneeling to hold his hand out to Titus, letting him sniff it before he stroked over his head, offering up a quiet, "Bring him back here once in a while, okay, boy? I... I need to see him."

Titus gave a whine and then a decisive bark, Tim gently scratching him behind the ear before he stood up and nodded toward the manor. "Go. Take him inside. It looks like rain."

In an instant the dog was off like a bolt, Damian flicking one last glance at Tim's grave, hand trailing over his name before he was rushing off after him.

Tim settled with his back to his gravestone, his head resting against it as he closed his eyes. Sleep... he needed sleep. Whatever had happened to him back there with Dick had taken a lot of out him and - judging by the world around him - it had taken a lot of _time_ for him to manifest again. Denying the tug of the world bringing him back here obviously wasn't the best of ideas, though he couldn't find it in him to regret his actions. 

Tilting his head back, he let a smile caress his lips, let the last rays of the sun provide him with the sense of warmth that he couldn't feel. At least he knew now. His family was safe once again.

\------

Hours later, Tim came to, the first light of dawn drawing up over the horizon. Pushing himself to his feet, Tim trudged up toward the house, still feeling that strange ache he could only describe as _dry_. It was like how he remembered feeling when he'd been captured once years ago, the people who'd done it keeping him tied up for days with only the barest hints of water, just enough to keep him alive but weak. But he'd take it over whatever had happened back there with Dick. He'd take any existence here over the empty nothingness of what had to have amounted to months of _lacking_. 

Shifting himself through the door, he made his way through the house, pausing just outside Damian's door, remembering how much time he'd spent here with Titus. Every second of those moments flitted through his mind, bringing a smile to his face as he reached to touch the door he'd willed into solidity. This time his fingers passed right through it, as if his mind knew it was open to him again, that this piece of the world wasn't sealed off from him any longer. 

Stepping through, he glanced at the bed, finding Titus at the foot of it, watching the dog lift his head, eyes tracking him across the room as he came toward them. He stood at the foot of the bed for a moment and then eased himself up next to Titus, letting him move around so that he had his head resting on Tim's thigh. Titus huffed out a sigh and Tim reached to stroke his head, whispering, "I know... he's back. The world gave him back, didn't it?" Another huff from the dog and Tim tilted his head back, breathing out, "I wonder if he knows how... if... if Bruce put him through the hell that Jay's lived through."

Titus whined and Damian shifted in his sleep. Tim glanced over at him, slowly running Titus' ear between his fingertips, letting a certain reassurance slip through him. "No matter the hell... he's here now." Leaning his head back against the wall, Tim closed his eyes. "What a damn gift."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things write themselves into another direction completely than you first expected them to go. 3k worth of plot outline and so far I've driven this bus down a whole other road for about 500 words of that plot outline. Well, let's see where this path is leading, hmm? You'll be as surprised as me at this point!
> 
> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Don't Go" by Bring Me The Horizon / "Hospital for Souls" by Bring Me The Horizon

Some part of Tim had expected that he'd try to go back to Dick, that he'd find himself pulled back toward him in the most unyielding of ways, but seeing Damian standing there had veered everything off course like a train derailed from its tracks. He found himself, more often than not, in Damian's shadow. He followed him around the manor when he was awake and he spent his nights sitting by his own grave, finding himself drawn to it more often than before. He wanted to go with him and Bruce on patrols, but the journey was too much to make anymore, leaving him feeling fragile and so very near to what had happened to him at Dick's side. He wanted to visit Jason again, desired to feel the warmth of his presence again; when he'd tried, he began to feel the pull only halfway there. 

And so, fear kept him rooted within the manor's grounds, urged him into remaining as close as he could to what he morbidly thought of as his decomposing corpse. He couldn't help but think that time was running out; that when his body lost all sense of who he once was, he would simply cease to exist. But he was also all too aware that dwelling on it wouldn't help a thing. 

Instead, he watched Damian's tireless work, standing by his side as he ran through intensive calculations that Tim knew if he'd been a little less drained would have made sense to him. He watched as Damian spent hours hacking into pieces of Bruce's mainframe that he kept locked up from all of them, and he was there the night he finally broke through.

He knelt by Damian's side, hands on his desk and Titus resting against his side as he watched Damian's fingers fly over the keyboard, watched the code pushing its way through every line of defense Bruce had put up between the computer and the outside world. He'd checked almost half an hour earlier, watched Bruce log in, and while he hadn't caught the pass code in full, he'd understood finally that Damian couldn't hack it the rest of the time because Bruce kept pulling the server back offline once he'd done what he needed to do. It was calculatingly careful and it reeked of secrets and lies. Tim had a feeling he knew exactly what was in there and he had a sinking suspicion when Damian found out there would be hell to pay.

Willing himself a bit more corporeal, Tim leaned against Damian's side, watching as he hacked his way through the last few layers of security. He felt Damian shiver and he smiled to himself, resting his head against his bicep as he stared at the screen. Damian entered a command and another window popped up, running through the code he'd programmed, the lines zipping by until it came to a dead stop, another window popping open, asking for a password. Tim could almost feel the excitement he knew buzzed through Damian's veins. He'd been there before, right in his position, hacking into something of Bruce's and feeling this overwhelming sense of accomplishment to have come so far, to be so _close_.

Damian leaned forward and typed in something, pressing enter and then sitting back as window after window appeared on his desktop. Documents opened and file explorers launched until finally another window came up, asking if he wanted to play a new message. Damian opened a new command prompt and typed in three lines of code and Tim watched as everything began archiving itself, drawing down onto Damian's external hard drive, the disk light going crazy as it began to fill with information. 

Tim turned then, watching Damian's face, seeing the fear and the determination there. Reaching up, he let his fingertips trail over Damian's cheek, watching the way his eyelids went heavy, the way he went utterly still. "You know I'm here... you can sense me, can't you?" He knew he'd never receive a reply, but sometimes it just felt good to speak the words he wanted to aloud. 

He let his fingers drop, guiding them over Damian's forearm, watching his hairs rise in response to the chill of his touch. "Be careful with what you find, okay? I have a feeling it will hurt you more than it did me. I have a feeling there will be anger in your soul." He let go, stepping back and glancing down at Titus. "Keep him out of trouble, hmm?" 

Titus barked and Damian's head jerked toward him, his eyes a little wide. Tim smiled then, stepping back. "It's pulling me again, but... don't start a war without me." Turning away, he walked to the window and let himself onto the ledge, leaping down onto the lawn, dashing across the yard and down toward his grave.

\------

Damian spent every free moment he had in front of his computer over the next few weeks, sifting through data, Tim by his side, watching it all pass over the screen. Tim spent late nights with Damian sorting through all of the ways Bruce had tried to bring him back. He watched as Damian reorganized things into the simplest of formats, ditching some things into the unnecessary void of the recycle bin, others slipping into a folder simply marked _Later_ , and yet other pieces going into two separate folders: one marked _Damian_ and one marked _Dick_.

It wasn't the organization system he would have used, but he supposed if Damian was looking for something in particular, then it made enough sense for now. Days were spent before Damian finally imported the email file onto his own desktop, adding it as a secondary account and launching it. The address alone left Tim feeling dizzy, feeling like he already knew what was coming. It was simple enough: _bwmalone_. The implications after what he'd heard Dick murmuring into his radio left him certain he knew where this was going. So far Damian hadn't uncovered anything specific to lead him toward Dick being alive, only plans Bruce had been hatching to put Dick in undercover within an agency called Spyral. But this... this would be all the proof needed to show Damian that Dick was alive and well, that he'd been lied to all this time, and he was sure it was about to go over like a lead balloon.

Settling himself on the edge of the desk, Tim chose to watch Damian's face instead of the screen. It took a lot out of him to lean here, the impression of where he'd once touched so faint here that his body wanted to slid right on through. He watched the movement of Damian's eyes over the screen, watched the crease in his brow as he read through the emails, and finally he watched the fire ignite behind those jade eyes, watched his jaw set and his shoulders go stiff. 

Reaching out, he willed himself to touch Damian's hand, resting it over his on his mouse, watching the way Damian's gaze flicked down to his hand. "Don't let this consume you." He let go a moment later, pushing up and breathing out, "Titus. Walk," knowing it would force Damian to the distraction he needed.

Walking to the door, he waited, Titus stretching and following along with him. Passing through, he heard the whine and then the scrape of Damian's chair as he stood up. He let himself drift toward the back door, Titus trotting along behind him, Damian bringing up the rear, and he wondered for an instant if anyone could have seen this how comical this was. Or, perhaps, it would have been heartbreaking, given the hitching he could hear in Damian's breath as they drew close to the back door. He stepped outside and waited for it to open, hearing Damian putting on his shoes, tying the laces. 

Once they were outside, he breathed out, "Come," to Titus, leading them down toward the graveyard. At his headstone, he moved behind it, placing his hands on it and waiting, hoping against hope that Damian would understand, that he wouldn't discount what Tim _knew_ he'd seen. Titus meandered toward him, sniffing around and then darting off toward some bushes along the edge of the property.

Damian stood for a moment, his eyes raking over Tim's headstone and then he stepped forward, placing his hands over the edge of it. Tim felt the spark of electricity run through him again, so much different than when he touched someone through sheer willpower. He waited, chest heaving with each breath as Damian stood there, head bowed, obscured by the darkness. When he lifted his head, Tim could see the evidence of his pain tracking down his cheeks, could see the fear there, then the relief as their eyes met. This time, it was Damian who spoke and Tim who listened and for the first time since he'd been dead, Tim felt like he could have been whole again, just for an instant.

"What has he done? He _lied_ to us. He - he's _alive_ and we never... he never-" Damian cut himself off, the little gasp of his breath telling Tim how hard this was for him to get out. Damian's head bowed for a moment and when he snapped it back up, there was another man staring back at him, one Tim hadn't seen in a long time: fierce and tough as nails, filled with determination and _anger_. "He let you _die_. He's alive and he could have saved you!" Damian's voice grew louder and Tim felt his heart surge in his chest. Without thinking anything through, without any hesitation whatsoever, Tim leaned over, reaching up with one hand and grasping the short hairs at the back of Damian's neck. He watched the icy cold fingers of his actions rush through Damian, leaving his eyes wide and his lips parted, but silent.

"I do not blame him. Neither should you." Tim pressed himself against his headstone, a shudder ripping through his own body at the full contact with it. He leaned in until he would have been breathing the same air as Damian had he existed in the same sense. "No one is responsible for my actions but me."

Closing his eyes, Tim let his lips ghost faintly over Damian's cheek and then over the bridge of his nose before he pulled back, putting his hand back down on the gravestone. "Let go of your anger. It will only threaten to consume you." He waited until those eyes were gazing into his own again. When they were, he breathed out, "I'm here. Not in the traditional sense, but - I've not gone just yet."

He watched the anguish in Damian's eyes and when he heard the words, he wasn't sure he could believe his own ears. "I will save you." Damian pulled his hands away from the stone, his shoulders squaring and his chin lifting. "No one else will. But I can and I _will_."

Tim knew with every ounce of his being: this was no idle promise. It was a threat to the universe, a cry of determination. No matter what happened, Tim knew Damian wouldn't rest until he found a way.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: Various by Bring Me The Horizon

When Damian Wayne got an itch to accomplish something, Tim was certain nothing could stand in his way. He'd stood at his gravestone watching a boy - barely a man in the traditional sense - crumble in front of him. That was, until he'd found something to grasp onto, something he knew he could _solve_ , no matter the shit storm his life had been the past few years. He'd seen the walls come up, the iron cage slam shut around Damian's emotions, and he'd known beyond any shadow of a doubt that _nothing_ would hold him back. Not now. Not anymore.

Time trudged onward, Damian digging up research that Tim did his best to ignore, not wanting to have any inkling of what was going to happen to him, though he had a feeling it was going to be the Lazarus pits which meant he needed to steel himself, needed to get all his proverbial ducks in a row before he was brought back. He needed to let go of his anger and his hatred of anything he'd harbored when he was alive and just _exist_. He'd seen how Jason came back. He'd heard a few of the stories, told quietly after a few stiff drinks in the dead of the night. None of it had been pleasant; the last thing he wanted was something horrible like that to happen to him.

He spent his time at his grave when he got the sense that Damian was getting closer to the answer, conserving his ever-dwindling energies, because he knew who he wanted to be with when he was pulled back. He wanted to force his last memory to be Jason's face in some vain hope that it would help stabilize him out the other side. 

Titus spent days napping by his side, his nights inside with Damian, as if he didn't want Tim to be lonely now that he sat out here instead. Every once in a while he'd see Damian or Alfred at the top of the hill, whistling for Titus to come. He'd caught sight of Alfred's anguished face one evening when he saw where Titus was coming to lie and ever since then, he'd looked away if anyone came down further than the crest of the hill. He'd caused enough pain, enough grief for one man. 

Memories of the people who had left the shrine to him and of the letters Stephanie wrote to the people of Gotham flooded his mind, breaking him into a million pieces the longer he remained at his graveside. He felt pain for what he'd done, felt regret for all the things he should have done instead of what he had. 

By the time Damian came down to visit him, weeks later, he felt like he was drowning. His mind was but a jumbled mess of anxiety and devastation. When Damian put his hands on the gravestone, Tim debated not getting up to speak with him, his mind a shadowy and darkened place, consumed with self-loathing and a bitterness he'd never once felt in life.

It had taken Titus whining desperately at him before he dragged his ass up, trudged around the back of the stone, placed his hands over Damian's own and then looked up. He looked up into a face filled with relief, with beautiful hope and, for an instant, he could feel it too. Warmth slid through his body, tingling up his arms and shining the brightest light into his darkness. 

"I was afraid you'd gone..."

Tim dredged up a small smile, shaking his head just the slightest, watching Damian's eyes track his movement, certain he could see him. He leaned against his headstone, fingers curling tightly around the cool surface.

"I found a way. It's dangerous. I just... I need to know one thing, Tim. Please." Damian bowed his head, his breath becoming shallow, and Tim knew he was having trouble keeping his voice steady, that he worried about that even now, with a ghost and a dog as his companions. For a moment, he was left to worry what Damian's childhood before Wayne Manor had held, but the thought flitted away when Damian lifted his head, the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. "Tell me if you _want_ to come back... or not. This should not be my choice."

Tim looked down at their hands, pulled one of his up and forced himself into the realm between Damian's and is own where he could actually touch him. He let his fingers slide up Damian's arm, gaze following every hair that stood on end. Closing his eyes, he leaned in and breathed out quietly, "You've been here for me, just as you were in life. If... if you will be there for me on the other side, then do it." 

Letting his eyelids flutter back open, he caught the way Damian was looking at him, the pure _love_ in his eyes before he looked away, drawing in a breath and shaking his head. "I know you're speaking, but I cannot hear you. I need a physical response or... or-" he shook his head, turning his head back toward Tim. There was a horrible amount of pain in those pretty jade eyes and Tim understood instantly that Damian _needed_ him back. 

With one nod, he watched Damian's world change; his expression giving everything away. It was so rare to read Damian like this, but he was showing all of himself to Tim. Damian started to draw away, but Tim reached out, grabbing at his arm, Damian hesitating, one hand still on the stone. Desperate to make himself understood - just in case everything went bad - Tim urged Damian back against the stone and he leaned over it, hooking one arm around Damian, resting his head on his shoulder. He felt the shiver that rushed through him and he lifted his other hand, pressing it against Damian's shirt, right over his heart, fingertips pressed there as he pushed out the dizzy array of what he felt in that moment toward him. 

Pulling back, he put his hands back on the stone and gave Damian one more decisive nod. "Go... do your thing."

As he walked away, Tim couldn't help but feel like he was about to walk the very pits of Hell itself in order to come out the other side. It left him feeling rough around the edges, left him dwelling on how things would be on the other side. Would he feel the hatred and the rage that Jason had? Would he come back less bitter because of how he'd died? Or would it be more now that he knew he'd been betrayed by both Bruce and Dick? Or would he cling to the fact that Damian was saving him?

He stood by when darkness came, watched the Bat signal come on over GCPD, and he wondered... when would it be?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we reach the first climax.   
> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Behind a vacant image (Acoustic Ver.)" by Dir en grey

Tim stood quietly on the roof of the very building where he'd ended everything he'd called life. The candles still held a silent vigil behind him, flickering into the night, and Tim knew he didn't have a lot of time left before everything was going to change in one hell of a hurry. Here, it felt like he had forever, but he still comprehended the passage of time on the other side of this fragile wall that separated him from the rest of the world. 

He'd been at the manor this morning when Damian had wiped his entire computer, packed away two external hard drives, carried the old drive off into the woods at the edge of the property and destroyed the damn thing in so many ways no one would have ever had a prayer of figuring out what he'd been doing on it. He'd been there this evening when Bruce was called away for an important meeting with Wayne Enterprises. He was there when Damian sent Alfred into town for a dinner he insisted he needed to have and when Damian was covered in dirt, kneeling over his casket, attaching cables to it to haul it out of the ground. 

It was then that he'd left Damian's side for his last exploration of Gotham; the one he'd been saving up energy for, plotting toward for weeks on end. He made his rounds, checking on a few things he knew he'd want to know when he came back if he could hold onto them long enough to do so: the names of people they'd been tracking, the verification of a few Court activities, and even tracking down the stupid pizza shop Jason had been talking about finding once and then forgetting where the hell it had been a week later. 

How he'd ended up here was anyone's guess, though, as he hadn't really planned it, had only felt drawn to come back to this very spot tonight. He stood there an hour, knowing he'd meant to find his way to Jason's side, to spend his last moments watching him in hopes that it'd stick in his mind and help draw him out the other side of any pit-related madness. 

It was only when he turned around to get down off the ledge that he found himself looking right at none other than the very man his thoughts had been dwelling upon. Stepping down, he made his way through the candles, came to kneel at Jason's side, watching as he lit a red and black candle, the carefully painted golden RR on the side making him smile just the slightest bit. 

Jay sat back, lighting his cigarette and gazing out across the sea of candles, over the letters that rustled in the faint breeze, and then coming to rest on Tim's staff and the phone that both still lay there after all this time.

The urge to talk to Jason bubbled up and while he knew it was pointless, he let the words come tumbling out anyway as he stared at his staff. "You know, that night, I called Damian. I knew it was hopeless; I knew he'd been taken from us and that it was a futile effort on my part. But, I just wanted to have the comfort of that feeling one last time even when I knew it was the end before I ever made that call. And when I heard _his_ voice instead... I think it made it worse." Tim went silent for a moment, looking down at the flame of Jason's candle, watching it dance, protected by the lip of the glass just enough that it didn't extinguish. 

"I didn't know how to reach out to you... or to anyone else. Damian... he only stumbled into it. I called Dick and he'd kept his phone, you know? It was just chance that led us there. But when it came to anyone else, I couldn't do it. I just couldn't lay my shit on any of them. Not on you, not on Bruce or Alfred or the rest of the Titans. Not even Steph..." 

Shaking his head, Tim eased himself to sit beside Jason, wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing his cheek to his knees. He could feel the threat of tears, put he pushed past it all. "Coming here reminds me of what I did, but not how you'd think. I don't sit here and think about how I threw myself off the top of this building. How I let myself make that fall and how it brought me this blessed peace I didn't know I could ever have. I think about how much I hurt everyone else. How many people come here because of the difference I made in their lives." He lifted his head, gazing over the sea of candles again. "There's this binder of notes under the AC unit back there. Some girl comes and collects them up and protects them like she knows how much they matter. And you know... they do. They matter a lot to me."

He was quiet for a while, finally looking over at Jason, finding the most anguished slate-gray looking back at him. He hesitated for a moment and then rolled up to his knees, his heart pounding as he watched Jason track him. "You can see me. You _know_ I'm here." 

Jason's breath hitched as he gave the barest hint of a nod. "I can."

Shock filtered through Tim, everything inside of him leaping with _hope_. "Listen to me. Damian's bringing me back and I'm okay with that. I _want_ it, so don't you dare try to stop him." He paused and then, "Jay, I need you to know a few things. Get that package under the AC unit and take the papers. Leave one that says Tim's brother claimed them. Leave the rest. The pizza place is on Elmhurst and Ninth; it's Johnny O's." He watched the pain turn to the faintest glitter of amusement. "You're taking me there when I come back. And... the Court's planning a strike next week."

The hairs on his arms started to stand on end and his heart hammered like it was trying to get out of his chest cavity. His breath rasped and he choked out, "Paris night... at the Grande. Not sure... what. Just... stop it." He doubled over, nearly retching as pain yanked at his abdomen, as his mind started to crackle in a way that made him feel damn near like how he'd imagined a stroke would feel, and he choked out, "Dick is alive."

He watched the anger flash over Jason's face and then he was gone, his body feeling like it was being ripped into a million pieces. Pain lanced through every single cell and his brain finally short-circuited on the overload of torture. 

For one blessed second, there was _nothing_. Time stood still and the world fell away around him, the darkness caressing him, holding him in her tender arms, and then he was being ripped away. Fire lanced through him once again, this time the intensity of it a hundred fold from the first time. All he could do was _scream_. Scream like the world was ending; like he was dying the most horrible death imaginable; like he was losing control.

His eyes snapped open and the first thing he saw were Damian's eyes, watching him through the haze of the water that he was pretty sure he was drowning in. His body seized and he felt himself go rigid and then the fire returned, scorching its way through his very veins. Throwing back his head, he unleashed a sound that, even dampened by water, was not unlike the chorus of a hundred tortured souls. 

Then there was blackness and an end to the pain. A place where he drifted freely, unaware of anything. There was no date, no time, no urgency, and no emotion. There was, simply, _existence_.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever sat down to write something and found yourself considering the original path was just... not where you want to go anymore? I'm stuck there with this story now. I forced myself to fall in love with this Tim while trying to do that to all of you reading this and now... what I had planned... it's painful in a way I hadn't expected it to be. So, we shall see. Is this the dawn of hope or of destruction?  
> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: " Behind a vacant image (Acoustic Ver.)" by Dir en grey

The faint sound of a heart monitor was the first thing Tim became aware of. Next the feeling of the softest bed beneath his back and then of the scent of coffee. It felt like lead weights were attached to his eyelids, but he managed to pry them open, accomplished lifting one hand enough to see the IV hooked up, the faint yellow fluid flowing down the tube into his veins. The air in his lungs felt like sandpaper and the fog in his head made him want to scream, though he was fairly certain his throat couldn't withstand such a thing given how agonizingly painful it already was. He swallowed and there was no saliva, wanted to cry but there were no tears.

His heart beat quicker, the machine ramping up as his breath started to come in horrible rattling gasps. This wasn't supposed to be how it would feel, wasn't supposed to be how he was when he came back to this side... _was it_? His fist clenched and he gritted his teeth against the sensations coursing through him. 

Damian came into view, hovering over him, a truly worried look in his eyes, there for an instant and gone again. He heard Alfred's voice, but couldn't focus on the meaning of the words over the pain. Something like ice hit his veins and he tensed, eyes going wide, a broken wail coming from his throat. The sound only cut off when the bed dipped, as he felt the press of someone warm close behind him, felt their breath on his hair as they cocooned him in their warmth. Only then did everything cease to be once again, fading out into an indistinct blackness that wasn't quite sleep, but wasn't awake either.

For days Tim drifted between these two worlds, one of agonizing pain, everything feeling like he'd been left to die in the Sahara, and one of vague awareness, nominal sensation, and icy cold fingers that wrapped themselves through his body time and again.

It was the fifth day - he counted them by the way the shadows crossed the room - when he finally felt the fog lift, when his body didn't quite feel so much like a dried up clump of soil. Rolling over onto his side, he fumbled for the nightstand, trying to force his fingers to work as he dragged the clock closer, focusing on the little dot in the lower left indicating between am and pm. _AM_. It was four in the damn morning. 

Keeping his heart rate steady, he slowly pushed himself to sit up, his head swimming with the effort, his breath hitching as he did his best to draw himself out of whatever haze this was entirely. The bed shifted behind him and the warmth of someone's hand came to rest on his back. Damian's voice, cracked from disuse registered in his mind. "Tim? Are you... _you_?"

Tim searched his mind for an answer, combed his way through the clutter of cobwebs and resistance, finally just shrugging his shoulders, the faintest of sounds exiting his mouth as he tried to tell him he didn't know. The bed shifted and then Damian was there, kneeling in front of him, clasping Tim's hands in his own. "It may take a while for you to be able to speak. We were worried about that. You were... _gone_... for a long time, you know?"

Tim nodded, doing his best to close his fingers around Damian's own, to hold onto him. He fished around in his mind for facts, drawing up faint images of following Damian around, the impression of freezing cold touches, and then the abrupt image of Titus resting his head on his knee while he sat against Damian's door, crying. Tim's heart slammed in his chest and Damian had to reach back and turn off the monitor, reaching to ease the sticky pads off of his chest, fingers gentle as he worked.

The instant he was done, Tim held up his hand with the IV in it, pulling a questioning face. "We can take out the solution for a minute, but you have to have it for a while more, okay?"

Nodding, Tim waited until Damian had carefully unattached him. When he had, he reached for him and Damian stood, moving to stand between his legs, leaning in and holding onto him tightly. When the trembling started, Tim didn't even try to stop it and when the tears began to flow, he was only grateful he could feel them cascading down his cheeks. He felt like half a man right then, but he had known it wouldn't be easy, remembered the way Jason had come back. It was only then that he pulled back, fear slamming through him as he forced himself to croak out, "Jay?"

"Right here, buddy," Jason's voice drifted from across the room, the door creaking as he pushed it the rest of the way open. "Bruce and Dick are going to be _furious_ that they missed you actually waking up." The bed shifted at his side and Tim couldn't help but lean into it, still refusing to let go of Damian in the slightest. He pressed his forehead back to Damian's chest, shivering as the tears took him once again, as Jason's arm looped around his shoulders. 

There was a sharp whine at the door and Damian breathed out, "Titus, come." Claws tapped across the floor and then the bed shifted as Titus jumped up onto it, padded around to Tim's other side and flopped down, his head coming to rest on Tim's thigh. The relief was stark, instant in a way that Tim hadn't expected and he untangled one of his hands to reach down and place his hand on Titus' head, idly stroking one of his ears. He wanted to tell him he was real, that he was actually here this time, but his voice wouldn't produce anything else. Instead, he simply clung to his family, doing his best to hold it together even a fraction. Someway, somehow... it was all going to be okay.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Scars" by James Bay

Tim's fingers ghosted over the hard lines of the Batmobile, the cool metal beneath his fingertips reminding him of another sensation, one that felt so far away now. The separation was only a few weeks, not even nearing the month mark just yet and he still felt like it had been forever ago. The memories of when he'd been a mere spirit in their realm fading away like a dream hours after waking up from it: fragments of it clinging to his mind, the focus shifting back toward reality. He'd tried to write about it, sat down with a pen and a paper to figure out what all he'd been through and what had brought him here, but all he'd found himself placing on the paper were the frail lines of a drawing, his mind absent from the task at hand. 

The page had disappeared from his desk by the next morning and he was well aware of who had taken the inky black mass of lines away. He even knew where it resided now, though he made no move to retrieve it. Whatever Damian had seen in it, it was probably more than Tim himself had. 

That same chilling emptiness had led him down here, brought him face-to-face with memories from what felt like another lifetime, another person. He remembered the feel of this car beneath his hands, he remembered the way it'd felt to be under her belly, watching Dick or Jason fix her up, learning another skill to add to his list. He recalled how silly he'd felt the first time he'd changed the oil and the first time Jason had shown him how to change the tires. It had felt like he should have known these things inherently, but he hadn't. 

That was how life felt now. As if he should know how to exist here, but didn't quite comprehend it anymore. 

He spent days without remembering to eat, hours barely breathing until his oxygen content was so low he was barely conscious, and he was certain he could feel his heart forgetting to beat at times. Things that had once stuck like glue in his mind felt elusive and actions he'd once done with grace ranged from simply inelegant to disastrous. His hands fumbled over the keyboard when he tried to type and his hands shook when he tried to dress himself. 

He hadn't told anyone yet, hadn't shared this side of what he'd become. Instead, he meandered around listlessly, feeling more like a burden than an asset, growing more and more lost by the day. 

It wasn't ideal, not at all the way he'd thought he would have come out of this when he'd been okay with Damian doing this for him. It was similar to how he'd always assumed someone with brain trauma felt during recovery; while he supposed that made a certain amount of sense given rate of decay and the pit's regenerative powers, it still brought him to a darker place deep inside.

Bringing himself to the computer, he pulled out Bruce's chair and settled himself in it, sitting all the way back and drawing his legs up onto the seat. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he rested his chin on his knees and gazed at the happenings on the screen. He saw Bruce and Jason out on patrol, but he didn't see Damian anywhere; an oddity, since he'd been out almost every night and come back every dawn exhausted, falling asleep sitting on the foot of Tim's bed, as if he couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone. Tim had taken to tucking him in once he was out, making sure he could stretch out and that he had a pillow. 

In a way, he understood the compulsion, the need to check on him. He felt _responsible_ and Tim was sure that wasn't just in one way, but in a multitude.

The comm light lit up and Tim pressed mute and then accept, just listening to the breath on the other end of the line before there was a quiet, "I know you're there. You've been gone too long and I've been _here_ too long. I heard... I heard he's back. Why didn't you tell me? Why did I have to find out this way?"

Tim watched the steady blink of the green light telling him it was connected, feeling the tingle of fear that lit up his fingertips and sped up his heart. Dick's voice wasn't nearly as welcome as he'd have thought it would be. His heart wrenched hard and he pushed his face down against his thighs, sucking in a deep breath as he clung to the idea of not giving in, not letting go.

His fingertips dug into his skin and he could feel the pressure that would create bruises, could sense the loss of control that was coming down. 

"You think this was easy on me? Knowing he died because I _couldn't_ answer that damn phone? Because of _you_?" Dick's voice rose with each word and Tim could feel his breath starting to stick in his throat. It stopped coming in and he couldn't seem to get it past the back of his mouth anymore no matter how hard he struggled with it. His arms shook from how hard he was digging into his skin, fingertips against flesh, a touch to leave evidence of this for weeks.

The world began to narrow and despite the darkness of his face pressed against his thighs, he knew what was coming, though he was powerless to stop it. 

Dick's voice cut off halfway through a sentence and then Tim's chair was moving away from the desk, drawing backwards and turning. He didn't look up - couldn't. 

Gentle fingers untangled his own, easing his legs down and then tugged him forward until he was met with the solid wall of warmth that was Damian's chest. He could barely register anything else, but he _knew_ who it was, who had come to rescue him in these moments. His hands latched on as he sucked in breath after breath, everything snapping back into focus like a rubber band had been let loose somewhere inside of him. 

Damian's hand stroked over his back, creating the most gentle of circles there. He didn't say a word, but he didn't need to. Just his presence was enough to give Tim the reprieve he needed from whatever mess this was inside his head. It wasn't a cure and he knew it wouldn't be permanent, but it _mattered_ in a way not much else ever had. It mattered like those late night phone calls. It mattered like every caring word and every ounce of understanding Damian had ever cast his way. Right then... it was _enough_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Hold Back The River" by James Bay

Some things never changed, but some _did_ , and Tim pretty much had a front seat view to what _had_ changed at the moment. Bruce and Damian were facing off on the mats for the third round, one of which had come out in Damian's favor already. The second had seemed like a fluke, Damian misstepping and Bruce had taken him out by brute strength off of the mat; whereas the first Damian had legitimately won, the bo staff he'd been using against Bruce's forehead, his foot firmly planted against Bruce's gut, heel dangerously close to his junk. It had been something Bruce had looked well aware of, understanding inherently Damian had held the blows back for the sake of not actually harming his father while they trained. 

Tim had been down here pretty much daily since he'd been mobile, doing his best to get himself back into working order, all of his muscles feeling sore from disuse. There were things the pit had done... and most certainly things that it had _not_. Giving him back his prior fitness level hadn't been one of its gifts. At least he wasn't technically out of shape, but he wasn't great either. Not yet anyway.

Settling in the rowing machine, Tim began the next phase of his workout, glad for the advantage of the position of the machine versus the mats. The pair advanced to the center and Tim took a moment to study Damian's height in comparison to Bruce's, noticing how much he's sprouted up while Tim had been absorbed in his own version of Hell all these years. No longer a child, not even technically a teenager anymore - at least not per the law - Damian was damn near his father's height, half a head shorter at the most, and his body had developed to something that rivaled Dick's for ratio of limber, lean muscle versus hard-packed bulk. 

They bowed to one another and Tim began his workout, keeping his breath steady as he moved, eyes on them as they retreated to their sides of the mat, Bruce picking up a set of electrified escrima sticks and Damian his training sword. They all knew the final round goal - avoid the electricity at all costs. Defeating Bruce in the final round was always difficult. Tim himself had only taken Bruce down once, Dick several times, and Jason's pure brutality while Bruce was holding back had managed a few himself. Damian had yet to accomplish the final round as far as Tim knew.

Damian considered the sword for a moment and then took a step back, swapping it out for his own pair of escrima, these non-electrified, but absorbing. He took a stance that was eerily familiar to Tim, his core training on their side achingly obvious and Tim knew what Bruce would do before he ever moved. All he could see was _Dick_ when he looked at him then. The idea of it was simple and Tim read it like it was a damn book; Damian would lull him into thinking he was fighting him like Dick, then go for his own style the moment Bruce wasn't expecting it. 

They advanced on one another and then Damian was darting across the mat, tumbling past Bruce at the last second, popping up behind him and lashing out. Bruce avoided it and countered with a kick that Damian barely ducked under. He came back up and led Bruce around the mat, urging him into striking out and then ducking it, trying to get in his own hit, which Bruce neatly avoided. 

Tim worked the machine faster, his interest in what was happening urging him forward in his own workout without even noticing it. He watched them dance around the mats, watching it like a work of art, every single blow avoided, neither of them landing anything but a brush, Bruce not even activating the electricity just yet. 

When it finally crackles through the air, it was only because Damian had blocked Bruce with his own escrima, his block slamming Bruce's thumb onto the trigger point. Damian brought both of Bruce's arms down, spreading them apart as the electricity arched between the sticks. His feet were planted firm. When Bruce tried to strike out, he took the blows without flinching, arm and back muscles bulging as he fought against Bruce's strength, widening his arms from the inside out. 

Bruce tried to come down hard, lunging forward and Damian intentionally went down flat on the mat, bringing his knees up in the back and driving both escrima into Bruce's gut. As he stumbled, Damian flipped over, rolled out from under him and then cut him across the back with one arm, throwing one stick to strike right on Bruce's ungloved hand. He released one stick and Damian tumbled to it, snatching it up and never stopping. He rushed Bruce, brandishing the escrima, seeming so reckless that it looked laughable that anyone would even try such a thing. 

At the last second, he let his momentum slide him across the mat, between Bruce's legs and he struck out behind Bruce, slamming the electrified end of the stick into his lower back. It was set to lowest power so all Bruce did was gasp as he was shocked, a tremor running through him as Damian released it, pulling himself up and standing with both escrima held loosely at his sides, a smirk on his face that Tim was certain he'd never seen there before. It was triumphant and _amused_. 

Tim slowed his workout and then stopped completely as Bruce turned around, bringing his arms up to cross them in his signal for defeat. He turned off his stick and Damian did the same, tossing the one he held to Bruce before retrieving his own. 

"That was reckless of you, you could have-"

"Oh give it up." Damian shoved both sticks into the holder on his side of the mat. "Such a sore loser. Sometimes reckless is what pays off, sometimes it is not. You think after so many years I have not learned this?" 

Tim had to purse his lips to stop his laughter from leaving him at the way Bruce stared at Damian, having no appropriate comeback to that. Finally, he walked off the mat. "You win this time."

"Get used to it," Damian muttered, just loud enough that Tim heard him and he couldn't have been more amused if he were honest. Something about the way Damian insisted on still being a smartass, even after all these years brought him a certain amount of happiness. _Some things never changed._


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: " Crucigrama" by Dvicio / "Quizás (Inédita 2015)" by Dvicio

The only sounds were the crunch of gravel beneath his feet, the slight scrape of Titus' paws as he ran alongside him, and the rush of the air past him as he ran. It had become habit over the past month as he trained harder than he ever had before. He'd started out barely able to do a few laps around the mansion and now he was following the whole road back out to the main connection, far outside the gates, and back. Yesterday, he had managed it twice, though today he had no intention of doing so again.

The early morning hours had been spent lifting weights and now he was using the part of the day before the heat set in to do his jog. Titus let out a little _woof_ , just a tiny little noise that was more of a greeting than anything else and Tim didn't stop the grin that grew as he heard feet fast approaching them from behind. The way Titus reacted, he already knew it was Damian before he fell into step with him. When he had, Tim glanced over, giving him a nod, not talking to keep his air for other things right then.

They sped up as they moved on, until they were flat-out running, Damian pulling ahead of him with a certain effortlessness that left Tim shaking his head. Damn guy had been doing this for _fun_ for too many years and it left him in the dust, especially since he still wasn't back up to full capacity just yet. 

As they neared the gate, Damian slowed down, waving his pass at the sensors, letting it open for them, darting inside, Tim and Titus following. They slowed to a gentle jog as they made their way up the driveway and by the time they hit the pavement around the fountain, they were actually walking. 

Titus padded over to the edge of the water and plopped down, paws dangling slightly into the fountain as they made their way around the expanse of it for a few laps, just cooling down before they stopped. When they did, Tim eased himself onto one of the stone benches, already warm from the morning sunlight, starting his post-workout stretches. Bending down over his leg, he stretched forward, not quite where he wanted to be.

Damian's hand came to rest on his back, gently helping him down into the stretch, not forcefully, but not lacking in pressure either. When he switched legs, the process repeated itself and he found himself thinking just how much Damian had changed. The kid he knew before would have sooner had his head than help him do a damn thing. Then Dick had gone away and they'd been left with one another and something drastic had shifted between them. They'd come to depend on one another in their grief. While Tim couldn't find anything but an ugly swell of dislike for what had happened with Bruce forcing Dick out and into Spyral, he didn't regret it entirely simply because of what it had done for him and Damian. 

He shifted again, this time lying back and pushing himself up into an arch, Damian's hand helping him pull it fully up, resting on his back, just a light pressure. Damian's own foot rested on the bench by Tim's head and a glance told him Damian was stretching in his own way while he helped him, ever silent about his actions. There were times that words were needed, but with as many as they'd used before Damian had died, they didn't seem to need a single one of them now. It was as if they'd found something kindred in their situations that left them communicating in a whole other way. 

Tim shifted back down, Damian's hand sliding away once he was safely back on the bench and Tim watched as he switched legs, leaning into it, this time further, and he found himself studying his form, once again noticing how far he'd come from the fiery little ten year old he'd first met. So many years had passed since then and he could barely find that child in the man in front of him. 

Damian glanced up, their eyes meeting, holding. Something shifted in the way Damian was watching him and Tim could have drowned in the depths of that gorgeous jade right then, could have watched him forever. 

Both of them jerked as someone cleared their throat somewhere behind Tim. He straightened and turned his head, finding Alfred gazing off toward Titus, politely giving them their privacy, but clearly having a reason for interrupting anyway. "I thought, perhaps, you would both like to partake in breakfast before it goes cold."

Tim huffed out a little laugh, pushing himself up off the bench. "Yeah, I think we could both go for some food." He glanced back at Damian, giving him a questioning look.

Damian pushed himself up out of the stretch and snapped his fingers. "Titus. Come."

Together they all headed up toward the house, not one of them leaving the others behind and Tim found that it left something pleasant lodged in his gut; something that did its best to dislodge the pain that had been there for far too long. It could only ever be a breath and he knew that, but it was nice to have once in a while. Slinging his arm around Damian's shoulder, he ignored the half-panicked look Damian gave him and just smiled as they walked along. He'd never imagined a world where he'd be this close to Damian, but he wasn't about to complain about it. Not one damn bit.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speaking of chapters that go other directions than you planned... well okay then, lol.  
> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: Various by Camille and Kennerly

Tim pulled on his gloves, stretching his fingers inside the material, wriggling them around to make sure the grip was sufficiently tight. There were things about his body that had changed since he'd come back - the way his muscles were developing differently to how they had been, his weight carried in slightly different places than before - and it tended to show in the most random of ways. His fingers had thinned out just the slightest while his hips presented a bit wider, something they'd had to modify his costume to accommodate. He didn't mind the changes - actually sort of liked it when he saw himself in the mirror - but it also meant that he had to figure out how it changed the way he moved, change his stance just the slightest bit, his balance centered in another place than it once had been. 

He reached for his new staff, pulling it into his grip and taking a step back, giving it a test with the new gloves, an appreciative little sound swelling up in his throat as he settled into a more relaxed position. He glanced in the mirror he'd taped to the wall beside his suit so many eons ago when he'd been Robin and he smiled at himself, feeling like he really meant it this time, like something was finding just the slightest push of freedom inside of him. _Hope_. Hope that everything would be okay, that he wouldn't fall over the deep end like Jason had. He'd just be him - even if that meant dealing with the depression, the pressing anxiety and the creep of what he was pretty sure was the start of PTSD at times. It didn't matter as long as he kept these other pieces of himself, the ones that made him _him_. 

"Drake! If you insist on coming with us tonight, get the hell down here!" Damian's voice echoed through the cave and Tim damn near grinned at himself in the mirror before turning away, double-checking the clasp on his winged-cape and then vaulting over the railing to the main floor. Another quick dash and he skidded to a stop in front of the Batmobile, carefully schooling down the grin to a level excitement that wouldn't make either of the Waynes stare at him like he'd lost the last shreds of his sanity. 

Damian grunted at him, gesturing into the car, a slightly grouchy look on his face, but one that Tim was used to, having seen it multitudes of times over the years. He slid in, scooting all the way over next to Bruce, one leg up on the seat, the other on Damian's side of the floorboard. They weren't supposed to have three people in the car at a time, but sometimes situation dictated over normalcy; this just happened to be one of those cases. Damian scooted in next to him and buckled up before closing the door, leaning against his side of the car to keep himself from pressing up against Tim's side.

Tim arched an eyebrow at him. For a guy who'd let Tim fall asleep damn near leaning on him in the TV room last night, he sure was picky about not letting himself touch Tim now. Shrugging it off, he rolled his shoulders and leaned his staff against his shoulder, looking out the windshield as they took off down the ramp. If Damian wanted to put on his uncaring bad ass face for the streets, Tim would just let him. It wasn't like they all didn't change in some way out there; they had to in order to survive. 

Their comms crackled to life as they hit the surface, Oracle's voice crystalline in their ears as she gave them the rundown of the goings on so far tonight in Gotham. Superman had been sighted speeding overhead a few hours earlier and one glance toward Bruce told Tim all he _wanted_ to know about that. Either some grim goings on somewhere in the world or his sneaking little suspicions that Bruce Wayne actually had a _friend_ were right; he still wasn't sure which one. But Clark had been seen around more and more from the way he'd heard Stephanie tell it on the phone the other night. Of course that was after she'd finally stopped berating him for waiting so long to contact her after coming back. It just hadn't been easy, hadn't been _anything_ really. Contacting any of the rest of the people he knew hadn't been and there were still some of them he hadn't personally told just yet, ones he wasn't sure he could handle hearing how they'd react to it.

His thoughts were derailed as word of a few of Penguin's goons smacking up some poor cashier for protection money came through. The car veered off in that direction and Tim mentally prepared himself for his first real confrontation since being back. 

The hours of patrol drifted by, not one of the things Bruce chose to go after really presenting any challenge at all for three of them. It was all clean-up and Tim started to suspect that Jason was out there somewhere doing all the truly difficult work while Bruce babied Tim. It would have annoyed him if he hadn't known how Jason had come back, if he didn't understand the pain Bruce had been through with one of his children already, not to mention that he'd been picking up on some conversations that seemed to imply Damian had come back a bit _different_ as well, despite his methodology of return being something else entirely. But he was pretty sure superpowers qualified as oddly interesting, at the very least.

Tim leaned on his staff, letting Gotham's breeze filter over his overheated body, closing his eyes for a moment, enjoying the whisper of the city around him. There was so much to hate about Gotham: her underbelly, her raw and dirty ache... but there were also moments like this, the ones that left him feeling _whole_ no matter what else happened. 

He had heard somewhere that some people were simply born for a job and others were forced into it. _This_ has always been the job for him, from the moment he'd breathed his first breath of air until he would swallow down his very last. Gotham was - and would always be - his home.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: Best Rap Motivation Music 2016 (don't ask, just flow with it)

Tim wiped the sweat from his brow, tossing his towel over his shoulder as he leaned over the sink in the bathroom, turning his head to stare at his reflection in the full-length mirror. He shifted his weight back, flexing his muscles and canting his head as he examined his form. The more he worked out, the more and more his body was changing. Old slim Tim was gone, replaced by a musculature he was beginning to understand was perhaps shared by those who had returned the way he and Jason had. His thighs had a thickness to them that hadn't been there before; it wasn't obscene or overly bulked, but it was noticeable to himself given how many years he'd known his own body. His biceps were rapidly approaching a rivalry with Damian's and his ass-

Tim huffed out a laugh as he straightened up and turned to glance at himself from behind, looking over his shoulder. If no one noticed _that_ they were blind. Dick's ass had nothing on his now. He wasn't into vanity, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to notice these changes and be proud of at least a few of them. Grabbing his jock, he pulled it on, snatching up his costume pants and giving his rear-end one last glance, shaking his head. 

Fifteen minutes later found him leaning against the bike they'd fixed up for him to run out behind them instead of squishing them all into the Batmobile, especially now that there were three grown men trying to fit in a space that had been tight for a teen and a full-grown Bat to start with. His staff was strapped across his back in a slight modification to his uniform, the wood he'd once used replaced by a semi-collapsible polycarbonate, weapons-grade metal combo. It was clear that Damian had been doing some damn thinking given that he'd just handed it off to Tim that morning, wordless but with a tiny little proud smile curving his lips, one that told Tim he'd been the one who created it.

The weight was perfect for Tim's style of fighting, the sway of the metal versus the poly had given him more impact and yet the bounce-back to pull his strikes if he needed to. It was perfect so far and he couldn't wait to use it on the streets. Not to mention it was a gorgeous emerald on the poly parts, the rest metallic red. If he'd ever seen a sexy weapon before, this one definitely topped the cake.

He watched Damian hop into the Batmobile, Bruce slipping behind the wheel, none of them speaking as Tim mounted his bike and the landing pad began the swing around to let them out of the cave. The Batmobile shot off up the ramp and Tim revved his engine, reaching up to slap his face mask down and then sped off after them, knowing this beast between his thighs held the power to catch up with the Batmobile if he wanted to. 

Three blocks into Gotham, Tim slowed, nearly a block behind the Batmobile, his patrol more on the ground while he knew the others would be aerial tonight. He pulled his helmet off as he came to a stop, waiting on a semi to cross his path as he tucked the helmet into the cavity for it just in front of where he sat. Hitting his comm, he breathed out, "RR on the damn streets. Read me, Oracle?"

Barbara's voice crackled over the line, "Got your game face on tonight, bad ass? Try not to destroy anything with that crotch-rocket."

Tim laughed as he revved it, pulling out and darting off through the city. "Just point me in the right direction and I'll _wreck_ whatever you want."

Another voice joined theirs on the line, the familiarity of Dick's timbre damn near shocking Tim. "Whoa kid, watch the innuendos. Just because you're back doesn't mean you get in on _my_ jokes."

"Ass."

"Can we focus?" Damian's voice sounded incredibly sour, as if someone had already knocked his teeth in once tonight and he was taking it personally. 

Tim darted around a few more cars and then slowed, Barbara's voice breathing out, "RR, half a mile, on your left. Assault in the alley just off Central and Grand."

"Check." He slowed, ditching the bike about fifty feet from the intersection, pulling out his staff and slinging it to click the expandable bits into place. His feet hit the pavement nearly soundless, his breath the only thing to give him away for the moment and even that slowed as he approached contact. Turning the corner, he was confronted with pair in the alley, just barely far enough back to be in shadows. The girl wore an apron from a coffee shop Tim knew. His gaze flicked to the metal door they were next to, knowing it led to the establishment. The man had his hand around her throat as she clawed at him, fruitlessly kicking at him. 

Tim couldn't see _exactly_ what the man was doing, but given where his other hand was, he didn't like it. Anger raged hot and hard inside of him; in an instant, he could feel the sneer on his face as he darted in, ramming into the guy, freeing the girl and steadying himself as the man damn near toppled.

"Run," he hissed out and he heard the girl's footsteps as she ran from the alley. He faced the man, his feet planted and his body shifted forward slightly, just waiting on the guy to come at him. "Fuckin' try it, ass bag."

The guy charged and Tim took aim and then struck out as hard as he could. The blow was solid, slamming into the man's elbow, the bellow he let out telling Tim he'd accomplished the level of pain he was looking for. Two more quick strikes, one to the gut, shoving him back and then one sharp smack right across the face, breaking the man's nose when he had him turned how he wanted him. He hit the collapse on the staff, shoved it into the holster and hauled ass toward the guy, plowing into him, all knees and fists. He took a few blows of his own, one to his side that he knew would probably bruise, one that barely grazed his bicep. The guy took a knife out and Tim grabbed his hand, wrenched it back until he heard a snap and the man screamed.

For a few seconds, Tim felt like something else entirely took him over, his fingers scrambling for the knife, his hand pressing over the man's mouth and nose as he brought the knife to his throat, pressing but not cutting. He watched the guy struggle, watched his movements slow and his eyes roll back in his head. 

At the last possible second, he let go, pulling back and standing over him, knife in hand and what he felt like was a very unpleasant look on his face as he stared down at him. "If I wasn't one of the good guys, I'd rip your fuckin' dick off and feed it to you for that shit." Snapping the knife shut, he launched it into the dumpster beside them, pushing the man over with his foot and listening to him groan before he knelt and began to zip tie the guy. "Pickup for the cops. One very sorry punk ass bitch."

There was silence on the line and then Oracle's quiet voice. "I cut the feed to the others Tim. I'm doing this one favor for you on the off-chance that you have _forgotten_ our place in this city. I just watched you beat the _shit_ out of that man. While I don't disagree with the punishment for the crime, I do not believe the big B would agree. Not to mention your... _proficiency_ in fancy language today."

Tim pushed himself up and turned away from the man, checking the latch on the door of the coffee shop and then strolling out of the alleyway, back toward his bike. "There are two things that piss me off; always have. Anything happening to the actually defenseless and assholes who think it's okay to force themselves on someone. Guess which _two_ things he was violating today?"

"I get it, I do. But B may not. Just... watch yourself, okay?"

Tim sighed, slinging his leg over his bike. "Yeah... fine." He hesitated and then, "Thanks for killing the feed."

"Only chance, RR. Straighten your shit out. I only cover for people once. Ask Hood." The line cut and Tim brought the engine to life, pulling out, passing the cops going the other way. Maybe she was right, maybe he'd overstepped... but maybe he _hadn't_.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Sextape" by Deftones

Tim's head hit the wall behind him, the _thump_ of it steady as he continued to do it, harder and harder every time. He wanted everything deep inside of him to simply disappear: every moment from another night out on patrol where he did everything he wasn't supposed to - he hit too hard, and more disturbingly found too much glee in his own actions. He groaned, closing his eyes and shoving the heels of his hands against his eyeballs, pushing hard enough to hurt. Still, the beat of his heart continued to increase, the shaking deep inside his belly swelled up, more and more present by the moment.

Shivering outwardly, Tim let out a thin little whine. A second later, he was up, racing across the bathroom as he nearly gagged on his own saliva. He let out a desperate sob, his fist slamming into the counter before he started to rummage through pill bottles, knocking half of them off the counter, some falling into the garbage, some scattering across the floor, one popping open and spilling its contents everywhere. He gagged again and this time everything went into reverse. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, he shook harder than he thought he ever had during one of these episodes; something that had happened to him for _years_ before he'd taken his own life, one of the many things he'd tried to get rid of with his actions that night. 

He gagged again and nearly crumpled to the floor, clinging to the sink as he retched. Not much came back up, as he honestly hadn't been putting much in there lately. Something about coming back from the pit had left him without any hunger, without any gauge as to when he should eat and when he should not. He ate in enough quantity to keep the tremors related to blood sugar at bay and to appease anyone around him, but didn't dare trust instincts to tell him how much to eat just yet. And today... today he just hadn't had time yet. Only some water and a protein shake hours earlier when he woke up, which didn't leave him much to choke back up. For that, he was grateful.

His eyes welled with tears as he shook harder, his hands fumbling again with the bottles left on the counter, hoping against hope one of them was what he needed. If he could just _calm down_ everything would be okay. Another sob left him as he retched again, this time only stomach acid burning its way up. 

The bathroom door opened and just as he started to finally lose his grip on the sink, arms slid around him, holding him up until whoever it was got their thigh wedged against him, holding him up as they reached past him, sorted through the pill bottles and finally came up with one. He could hear them opening it, the rattle of the pills tumbling against one another.

Hanging of the sink, he spit and then let out another whine, his entire body trembling so hard he couldn't even see. A rough hand grasped his jaw, turning his head, and a pill was shoved under his tongue. The taste was _rank_ , but less than a minute passed before he started to feel the effects of it. He gagged again, but nothing happened this time.

The water turned on and a moment later, a glass pressed against his lips. He took a mouthful and pulled his head back, managing to open his eyes to look as he spit into the sink, getting the disgusting taste of bile from his mouth. The process repeated a few more times and he drank the rest of the glass as it was tilted against his lips. 

He was still trembling, his legs still feeling like gelatin, and he knew he couldn't support himself just yet. He looked up into the mirror, reaching with one shaky hand to wipe at his eyes, finding Damian standing behind him, supporting him as easily as if he weighed nothing at all. Their eyes met for a moment and there was a sincere sadness in Damian's that Tim wasn't all that inclined to think on just yet. "Need... to sit." His voice sounded raw, as if he'd been screaming for hours, and he winced.

Damian kicked some pill bottles out of the way and took a few steps back, leaning on the wall and sliding down, easing Tim down with him, pulling him back against his chest, one arm looped around his midsection still. "Tell me if you need to vomit again."

Tim gave a little nod before he just gave in and leaned back against Damian's chest, closing his eyes for the time being. "It's happening all over again."

"I know." Damian's free hand came to push through his hair, gently pushing it back from his face. "I am sorry that you are dealing with it once again."

"Not your fault." Tim shifted, making sure not to press his elbows into Damian anywhere, just easing a few aches as he settled again.

They lapsed into silence, one that stretched out before them in a way that had Tim feeling like he'd suffocate again if he didn't talk, left him desperate to fill it with words, no matter how much it hurt to talk. He wanted to talk about what he'd done the first night on patrol, wanted to admit that _tonight_ hadn't been the first night he'd overstepped. "Did... did anyone see what I did tonight?"

Damian's hand tightened against his abdomen and then, quietly, "If I told you no, would you believe me?" Tim shook his head and Damian sighed. "Father did not see."

"Dick?"

"No, he was indisposed." Damian's fingers splayed over his stomach again, simply resting there. "May I be blunt or will it cause another attack?"

"Which one did you give me?" Tim opened his eyes to stare at the cabinets in front of him, his gaze unfocused, parts of his mind already starting to fade in an all too familiar sort of way. 

"One milligram." 

"Then I will be fine." His stomach made a noise and he felt Damian tense, as if ready to get him back to the sink if necessary. "Just empty... that's all."

Damian settled again. It took a moment before he finally said something. "I saw you, but I also did not stop you. I watched you rip that guy apart and I let you do it because he _deserved_ it if _you_ \- of all people - would do that to a man." Tim looked up into the mirror, finding Damian watching him there, that same sad look on his face. "Should I have stopped you?"

Tim swallowed hard, studying Damian's eyes until he found that fragile piece of hope within them that he was looking for, and then he looked away again. "No.... maybe... I don't know. It's..." he winced and then tried again, "There's something wrong inside my head, you know?"

"Like with Todd? When he returned?" Damian's hand tightened. "I thought I worked that out, that I _fixed_ that."

Tim reached back, not stopping himself from doing what he wanted, his hand cupping Damian's cheek for the briefest of moments before dropping it. "This isn't on you. It's just... _different_ , that's all. I see a person do something I find unforgivable and it's like something else takes over inside of me, like there's _another_ me that takes care of them. The first night we went out... that call Oracle sent me to?" Damian made a little affirmative noise. "That man was about to rape that girl and I damn near killed him for it. That... _wasn't me_. I don't know what it was, but I felt like something else just took over when I saw it happening."

"There's anger inside of all of us. It is a part of what drives us to become who we are, to protect rather than create the chaos of this city. Tell me... did you _create_ chaos or did you simply end what could have been worse?"

"I ended it."

"This is how Jason sees the world. How I once saw it as well. You are only a _bad_ person if you think yourself to be. Otherwise, you are only who you need to be."

Tim slid his hand down over Damian's arm, resting his hand over Damian's, fingers aligning with his. He could feel his world starting to fade already, the peace of drug-induced non-existence descending onto him. "Do you really believe that?"

"I believe what helps me sleep at night." 

Closing his eyes, Tim let exhaustion claim him, allowed the words on his tongue to die a simple, unspoken death as he let go of the conscious world for the time being.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "空谷の跫音 (2015.12.12 QSW Culture Center Q Hall -上海-)" by Dir en grey

In the weeks after what Tim could only think of as his disgraceful incident in the bathroom, he found that his thoughts returned time and again to the very same things. He thought on the man he'd beaten, on the incidents that had transpired to bring him to that breaking point, and he thought on _who_ it had been that came to save him from himself. The last thought slowly became the most prominent one, overriding his agony from the rules he'd twice violated.

Even now, post-patrol - something that had gone _well_ for once, Damian on the other end of his comm the entire time, a silent presence to keep him in line - Tim found that his thoughts only circulated around those minutes spent on the bathroom floor, resting against Damian's chest. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could feel the whisper of his breath, the gentle press of his hand over his abdomen, even the steady flow of his words as he'd told him everything he could have possibly needed to understand in that moment. Those words were the very ones that held him together, night after night, as if they'd held more weight than Damian could have ever imagined. 

Rolling onto his side, Tim pressed his hand to the mattress, feeling the way his brow creased, the way his heart and mind ached in a way he didn't quite understand. It was a bitter _loneliness_ that he couldn't seem to fill, a void that had been with him since he'd come back, and he was slowly starting to understand Jason's incessant need to run away from everything and everyone. It was how he'd chosen to deal with this ache and it was a path that Tim himself didn't want to find himself traveling. There had been a singular moment since he'd come back that he felt as alive as he knew he needed to and he knew exactly who had provided it to him. _That_ was growing harder and harder to ignore. 

Pushing himself up, Tim sat cross-legged on his bed, resting his hands on his thighs and closing his eyes, trying to center himself, to find the peace he needed somewhere inside. The silence grew around him, pressing inward instead of drawing outward, the heaviness of it suffocating the longer he sat there. 

Heart pounding, he shoved himself off the bed, stumbling into his desk and taking a moment to get his bearings back. It wasn't like him to lose his footing, wasn't something he was used to in the least, but he knew what it sprang up from, understood the magnitude of it like he couldn't understand anything else when he was headed down one of these paths. 

Determination pushed at him and he straightened up, swallowing hard against the lump growing in his throat. _Not tonight_. Tonight, he wouldn't be consumed by the self-hatred, by the anger that festered in his chest like some nightmarish demon. 

His persistence pushed him to take the necessary steps to the door and down the hallway to Damian's room. He could see the sliver of light beneath the door, hear Titus' snores, as he rested his palm against the wood, already fighting to keep his breathing steady. His fingers curled into a fist and he rapped twice, waiting as he heard some shuffling and then a quiet, "Come in." He got his hand around the doorknob and twisted it, nearly panting by the time he got his feet to propel him inside the room, and Damian was up in a heartbeat, closing the door and wrapping his arms around Tim, urging him toward his bed.

Tim let Damian maneuver him, let him lie him down on the bed. He let out a sigh of relief when Damian dropped down onto the bed, sitting beside him, his leg pressed along Tim's back, his hand on his side. "Tell me what you need."

The words left Tim feeling ripped open, barren to the world, but he didn't try to close himself up this time, refused to crawl away from what it was that he'd come here for to start with. "Your voice... your presence." He managed to roll over onto his back, found himself floating in his own world as he gazed up at Damian. "Just... _you_."

He saw everything then, the openness of Damian's emotions as they washed over his features, the way he looked at him like no one else ever had, and he reached up for him, knowing right then he could have the world if he so desired it. That was all it took to have Damian pressed to his side, his arm around his middle and his thigh sliding over Tim's, leg hooking behind his own. "I'm right here..."

Tim let his body acknowledge Damian's presence, allowed himself to realize that even when he'd been merely a ghost, it had been Damian's presence that had held him. He let himself relax, feeling his mind ease just as much as his body was, and when the words became less thought and more reality, he didn't bother to stop them. "I haven't said it, haven't been able to, but I need you to know," he hesitated then, hanging on the words he needed to say before he pushed them out, "I think things changed between us a long time ago... you know?"

Damian's fingertips played over the hem of his shirt and then dipped beneath it, splaying warm against his skin. "They have."

Tim could feel the fire that ignited in his blood at the mere contact and he _understood_ then that he'd been pushing away the truth for far too long now. "We need each other to survive this world, don't we?"

Damian was there then, one thigh between Tim's legs, hovering over Tim as he stared down into his eyes, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. He could see the quickness of his breath, could see the fear and the pain in his eyes, unrestrained now. "The world has betrayed us."

Reaching up, Tim slid his hand over Damian's jaw, cupping his cheek for a moment before catching the back of his neck and drawing him down toward him. "We just have to never betray one another." 

He drew him down, nearly all the way, Damian only resisting at the last possible second, so close they were sharing the same breath. "Are you sure about this?"

Tim stretched himself out beneath Damian, feeling more at ease than he had since he'd come back. "Not sure I've ever been surer of anything in my life."

All of the hesitation evaporated in an instant, Damian's warmth and scent enveloping him as he pressed tight against him, tongue sliding over Damian's lower lip, encouraging. The moment Damian opened up to him, something changed somewhere deep inside him. He could feel the incessant clamor stop, the nearly constant prickle of fear mellow out to a degree he could honestly ignore... and he _knew_. He understood just how much had been leading him to this exact moment in his life.

Drawing back from the kiss, he reached up to frame Damian's face between his hands, showing him everything he felt as he gazed up at him. "Without you, I've always been a mess. But with you-"

Damian's thumb slid over his lower lip, stopping him from talking, distracting him just enough to silence his words. He watched the smallest of smiles blossom on Damian's lips, the way his eyes danced with a light he'd never seen there before, and he knew nothing he could ever say would add up to the reality of it. Leaning back against the bed, he closed his eyes. "Let me stay here tonight?"

The bed dipped and Damian was pressed against his side again, stretched out and holding onto him tight enough they were sharing his heat. "My room is always open to you."

Tim reached down, twining his fingers with Damian's own. "And mine to you."

Maybe it wasn't perfect - it wasn't without flaw - but it was what they both needed and nothing had ever been so crystal clear to Tim in his entire life.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended to hurt Tim in ways that I never once brought up here. There was an entire path of anguish and horror he was supposed to walk down that I couldn't bring myself to do. Perhaps it was the hope that blossomed in my own world from the darkness of when I first started this story or perhaps it was simply that I fell in love with Ghost-Tim to the point that I couldn't let him fall so far when he was brought back. Whatever the reason, I am nothing but happy with the turn this story has taken and I'm happy to offer it up for what it is now.   
> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Runnin" by Adam Lambert

Tim settled on the edge of the very same building he'd willingly stepped off of what seemed like an eternity ago. Maybe it was foolish coming back here, but he couldn't get it off his mind. It was simply something he had to do. He kept one foot up on the ledge, the other dangling over the side, his balance nothing but perfect, his entire demeanor nothing but at ease. It was in stark opposition to the night he'd taken his life and that knowledge made him ponder the countless reasons for it. 

Pulling up his headphones, he pushed one into his ear, hitting play on his phone before he slipped it back into his pocket. There were hundreds of messages on a voice mail line that had been set up a few weeks before, dedicated entirely to Gotham's population and their need to talk it out with someone. While Tim knew he couldn't talk to everyone, he'd been doing his best to at least reply to a few messages a day whenever he could pull himself away from patrol. All of the anguish and the confessions of anything from self-harm to desperate pleas for help like what he'd needed weeks before he got to this very ledge crowded the inbox, while the more urgent pieces were routed directly to a live staffing of volunteers to help talk whoever was on the other end of the line down from whatever was happening. 

It had taken a good chunk of money to set the whole thing up, but Bruce hadn't even hesitated when Tim had brought it up. He'd watched the pain paint his face and it had been in that moment that he finally understood that Bruce hadn't brought him back for the simple reason of not wanting to put him back into the same hell all over again. He'd known it wouldn't stop, had anticipated that it would be - potentially - worse than it had been before, and he'd wanted to spare Tim that much. 

In a way, Tim appreciated it, though knowing some fraction of where he'd been, living with the understanding that the afterlife wasn't that much better, Tim knew he'd never find himself pushing for that way out again. The pain would remain, the things that ripped at his soul at night would never stop, but with a certain someone willing to listen to his wavering voice in the darkness, he knew he'd be okay. If not that moment, then at some point, he'd find his peace, fragile though it was.

_How did it feel to fall? Was it the freedom we think it is or was it horrible?_

The line jerked Tim back to reality and he sighed softly, hitting the star key to send him to reply to the voice mail. "Falling... the act was peaceful. It's what comes after that hurts worse than you can ever imagine. We think it's an end, that the pain will stop if we take our lives... but the truth is, it doesn't. The world afterward is just another version of the same. Trust me, fixing this one is what we have. I won't pretend to know your situation, I won't say I understand what you're going through, because we all have our individual demons, but beating them... that's our option. Hold onto the good moments, cling to them for all they're worth, no matter how the tables turn beyond them." He paused and then, "Bungee jumping... try it with a professional. I think maybe it'll bring some peace during the fall, you know? There's a rush in jumping between buildings, an instant between each one that I find freedom from every single one of my thoughts. I hear they've got some pretty sick facilities up in Metropolis for it if you ever get that direction. Otherwise, who knows... maybe I can encourage a certain someone with the idea of funding one." He let out a little laugh and then, "Maybe I will... who knows. Hang in there, okay? And remember, if you need our help more urgently, we're always here, just press one when you dial in." He hit the star key again and it verified the message sent. 

Movement to his right pulled his attention to the present and he hit seven to delete the message, cutting the call a moment later as he glanced over his shoulder, finding Bruce quietly watching him, standing amid the burned down candles and the rain-faded papers. "Hey..."

Bruce gave him a small nod, moving to his side and holding out a hand. Tim took it immediately, understanding the set of Bruce's jaw, seeing the fear written in his body language. Sliding off the edge and letting Bruce draw him a few steps away, he held up his phone. "Leaving messages for all the people like me out there. I thought it was fitting... coming out here to do it." He nodded back toward the ledge. "How long were you standing there?"

"Longer than I let you know about." Bruce's voice was gruff, the edge to it letting Tim know just how close to choked-up he was, and something wrenched hard in his chest. 

"I didn't mean to scare you. I'm not... I'm not like that right now." He pushed his hands into his hoodie and shrugged. "Haven't been for a few months."

Bruce shifted his stance and Tim knew he was trying to hide how upset he really was about Tim being here. "What changed?"

Tim knelt, picking up one of the _R_ pins, rubbing the dirt from it and finding the bright red and gold beneath. He held it out to Bruce, waiting on him to take it. Once he had, he offered a quiet, "Your son." He hadn't been all that sure about having this conversation with Bruce, but he also didn't want to keep it so long that Bruce would be blindsided by it. "I know you listened to the tapes, to all of the times he and I talked after Dick's _disappearance_." There was blame in the word, an undertone he couldn't keep from it that told Bruce he never should have let them all believe Dick had died. 

"I have."

"Then you know how much we relied on one another... and you have to know that didn't end just because we both died and came back." Tim let his hood fall back, lifting his face into the gentle breeze, closing his eyes as he let it caress his skin, push through his hair. "I think where we are now was inevitable."

Bruce was silent for long enough Tim was sure he wasn't going to respond and then he was gently tugging Tim closer, gloved hands agile as they pinned the _R_ to his hoodie. "If it keeps both of you alive... I will never speak a word against whatever it is you're alluding to. Though, when you are ready, I think perhaps clearly stating what you're trying to say might be best."

Tim waited until Bruce took a step back and he reached up, lightly touching the pin, facing Bruce head-on, a small smile pulling at his lips. "We're together now." It felt good to say it, to admit to what they'd decided less than a week before, and he felt a weight lift from his chest as he spoke the words. 

Bruce gave a small nod of his head, turning away, pulling his grappling hook out and taking aim at the nearest building. He glanced at Tim. "Want a ride down or are you taking the stairs?"

Tim was at his side in a second, letting Bruce secure his arm around him, clutching onto his armor exactly how he'd done a hundred times in the past, though this time he rested his head against his shoulder and let himself smile. "This is the only way I ever want to fall from this building ever again." He knew it was what Bruce needed to hear, just as much as he needed it to be a promise to himself. "Let's find Robin, shall we?"

He felt Bruce's chuckle more than heard it and a moment later, they were over the ledge, soaring through the night and Tim closed his eyes, let himself feel _alive_ , utterly at the mercy of someone else, and he _knew_ then. Nothing would ever get him down again. Nothing would ever stand so harshly in his way that he couldn't find his way out if it. With the support of those around him, he would always have somewhere to turn, no matter how dark, no matter how bad, there would always be light at the end of his tunnel. _That_ was all he could ever ask for.


End file.
